


GPO 































“ QUACK!” 

The Portrait of an Experimentalist 













“QUACK!” 

THE PORTRAIT OF AN EXPERIMENTALIST 

BY 

ROBERT J2LSON 



“ Shall mortal man be more just than God? ” 


BOSTON 

SMALL, MAYNARD AND COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 





» 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 


I. 

A Lord of Life and Death 

1 

II. 

The First Entry in Case-Book X . 

32 

III. 

The Charnleigh Millions 

48 

IV. 

Virgin Love. 

. . 75 

V. 

Damwily. 

. . 93 

VI. 

The North-East Wind 

. 135 

VII. 

A Quicksand Woman 

. . 157 

VIII. 

The Firebrand. 

. . 198 

IX. 

Two Aspects. 

. 220 

X. 

Not Proven. 

. 244 

XI. 

A Blinded Man .... 

. 273 

XII. 

The Hardest Nut of All . 

. 292 


vii 












“QUACK!” 


CHAPTER I 

A Lord of Life and Death 

He was lord of life and death. 

Not absolutely, he told himself with a sobriety acquired 
by experience. Accidents, virulent infections, malignant 
growths—these and many other causes of death would 
remain, beside the inevitable wearing out of the bodily 
machine. But not so did death arrive for the majority. It 
arrived as the final result of some ailment which had 
progressively reduced the power of resistance, the immedi¬ 
ate cause being a lack of sufficient vitality to carry on the 
fight: and that he could prevent. 

He looked at the glass tubes in a leather case which lay 
on the table before him. They contained a respite for all 
who were threatened with imminent extinction because they 
were weak. The consumptive, the rickety, the debilitated by 
imprudence or disease, the exhausted after operations— 
above all, from his point of view, martyrs to certain obscure 
functional derangements—if he published this, his second 
discovery, few of them need die prematurely. 

But some of them might die prematurely—exceedingly 
prematurely—through misuse of the remedy. He frowned. 
Pictures formed in his mind of the stages which had brought 
him to this crisis of indecision. 

He was sitting in the dog-cart beside his father, who had 
taken him out on his afternoon round. They were returning 

1 


2 


44 QUACK ! ” 


home across the heath. Overhead the sky was clear, palely 
blue: but in the hollows and among the trees the dusk was 
gathering. There was a tang in the air, an acrid but 
pleasant odour of decaying leaves and wood-smoke. Clop- 
clop, clop-clop, went the mare’s hoofs on the hard road. 

The dusk had settled in Windbach High Street, a purple- 
brown haze punctured here and there with pools of yellow 
light from the shop-windows and the feeble gas-lamps. His 
father twisted the blood-mare skilfully into the asphalted 
walk on which fronted the grocer’s. 

“Jump down, Harding, and ask Parkinson to give you a 
pound of rice.” 

He went into the shop. 

“Pound of rice—yes, Master Harding. There you are. 
Now, you tell your pa, with my comps., that there is more 
nourishment in that package than in a pound of beefsteak. 
Don’t you forget that, Master Harding.” 

He told his father, without comps., and received for 
answer, “Rubbish!” 

“Isn’t it true?” 

“True enough as far as it goes,” responded the doctor. 

Clop-clop, clop-clop, went the mare’s hoofs again. 

44 You mean it isn’t all the truth?” 

Dr. Fullar glanced at his thirteen-year-old son. “The 
two kinds of nourishment are not the same. Parkinson 
ignores that. He is only right to this extent—weight for 
weight, there is more nourishment of certain kinds in rice 
than there is of other kinds in beef. But the beef has the 
higher food-value.” 

“What does food-value mean?” 

“Heat-producing power.” 

“What has heat to do with it?” 


A LORD OF LIFE AND DEATH 


3 


“You are not old enough yet to understand that. If you 
are still interested a couple of years hence, read ‘Hutchison 
on Diet.’ You will find it in the shelves.” 

A few days later, deep in Hutchison, he became conscious 
that his father was standing over him. He looked up. 

“What is a calorie?” 

“I told you you were too young to understand,” replied 
the doctor. “WTiy aren’t you at football?” 

“I’m going in half an hour. I’m playing for the Church 
Lads this afternoon. But I wish you would tell me what a 
calorie is.” 

“I am not going to stuff your head with theories at your 
age,” growled the doctor. 

He relented in the evening, however. After dinner, over 
the dessert, he gave his son a lecture on nutrition. 

The rich graining of the Spanish mahogany dining-table, 
with its mirror-like surface; the wavering flames of the 
candles; the translucent ruby of the wine in his father’s 
glass, the deep dull crimson of it in the decanter; the glit¬ 
ter of the silver—branched-candlesticks, fruit-dishes from 
one of which he took almonds and raisins absent-mindedly 
while his father talked, the chased coaster in which the 
decanter stood . . . 

“Three kinds of materials are necessary to the body: 
those from which it builds up flesh and tissues; those from 
which it derives heat to keep up its temperature and the 
energy of the muscles; and those which go to form the 
bones and the teeth. Different sorts of food contain one 
or more of these materials in varying proportions. All 
foods, however, are combustible—that is, they contain heat- 
producing material; their respective values to the body are 


4 


“QUACK! ” 


in proportion to the amount of it. A calorie is a unit of 
heat-producing power—exactly, the amount of heat neces¬ 
sary to raise the temperature of a kilogram of water by one 
degree centigrade—and food-values are reckoned accord¬ 
ingly. Thus, if you were to burn a pound of dried beef you 
would find that it produced about 450 calories, whereas a 
pound of rice would only produce one-third as much. That 
is the measure of their value as foods. Therefore, it is pos¬ 
sible to determine offhand whether any given scale of diet 
is sufficient by adding up the number of calories it contains. 
About three thousand are required per day for an adult 
doing manual labour. Less suffices for women and children, 
and those who work with their heads instead of their hands.” 

“Then it doesn’t matter what a man eats, as long as his 
food contains a sufficient number of calories?” 

“Theoretically, no, provided the proper proportions of 
the three kinds of materials are maintained. But practically 
it makes a great difference ...” 

Harding, however, was not interested in the practical 
aspects of the question. “Parkinson only eats bread and 
nuts and fruit, and he gets on all right.” 

“No doubt, no doubt. He has accustomed himself to a 
diet of that kind.” 

“Suppose you were to accustom yourself to it—would 
you be as well and strong as you are now?” 

The doctor laughed as he refilled his glass from the 
decanter. “Scientifically, I must believe that I should. 
But I don’t intend to try. How would you like it if I were 
to cut off your meat, and make you eat nuts instead? 
What would Penny and Elsie say if they were forbidden 
sweets and told to make up with pudding?” 

“They’d say a lot,” replied Harding feelingly. Penelope 


A LORD OF LIFE AND DEATH 


5 


and Elsie were his sisters. But, much as he disliked nuts— 
“I shouldn’t mind going without meat for a time, just long 
enough to see if it’s true.” 

“If what’s true?” 

“All this you’ve been telling me.” 

“God bless my soul!” exclaimed the startled doctor. 

Was it a year later that he had been found deep in Hutchi¬ 
son again? His father had tchk-tchked and passed on. A 
few days after, he noticed that Harding had got hold of 
another authority on dietetics, and inquired sarcastically: 

“Assimilated all that Hutchison has to tell you?” 

“I can’t say that. I was looking for something he doesn’t 
tell me.” 

The doctor drew down shaggy brows. “What?” 

“Has anybody proved this caloric theory?” 

“Certainly.” 

“How?” 

“By experiment. You have not read Hutchison very 
carefully. He tells you about it.” 

“Not what I mean. Has anybody tried to find a diet 
which would contain the right proportions of the different 
kinds of food, and the requisite number of calories, but 
wouldn’t nourish properly?” 

“Why should they?” 

“To prove whether the theory is true.” 

“How would that prove it?” 

“Well, if you made a list of all the possible combinations, 
and then fed a man on each of them for a month, and saw 
whether it was all the same to him, you would know.” 

“God bless my soul!” exclaimed Dr. Fullar for the second 
time. 

A clear, bright day in spring. After morning school he 


6 


“ QUACK ! ” 


had gone up to his study. Percy the Nav was filling the 
coal-box, and pointed with a grin to a packet on the table. 

“I found that in the lodge, Master Fullar. It come by 
the second post. I thought p’r’aps you’d like to ’ave it 
now.” 

“Good lad, Perce,” said Harding. According to rules, 
letters were not given out until late in the afternoon. 

He ripped the cover off the package and found a copy of 
the current issue of the British Medical Journal. A leaf 
was turned down. A foreign scientist had carried out 
experiments on the lines he had sketched, and the results 
were not in accordance with the caloric theory. It was even 
possible to construct a diet on the accepted scale which 
hardly nourished at all. Scrawled in the margin, in Dr. 
Fullar’s handwriting, was: “What now?” 

Harding took pains over his answer. “I am not sure that 
I understand your question, but if you want to know what 
I suppose to be the cause of this, I should say it might be 
because some kinds of food contain unknown substances 
which are necessary for digestion, while those which have 
been found not to nourish by themselves don’t.” 

Back at home for the holidays, having tea with Penny 
and Elsie, his father being out on his round. 

“Dad is awfully proud of that letter you wrote him, 
Harry.” 

“He has been showing it to everyone.” 

“He says you have a flair for the theoretical, whatever 
that means.” 

The inward glow, the dawn of a belief that he was ex¬ 
ceptionally endowed. 

He told his father that he wished to go to Cambridge and 
train for research. 


A LORD OF LIFE AND DEATH 


7 


“Well, Harding, you certainly appear to have a talent for 
it, and it is the road to honours and all that sort of thing. 
But it’s a chancy game, and, as a rule, there is very little 
money in it. You will have to be one of the lucky few to 
make even half as much as I do here, and that you could 
have as soon as you are qualified. I have always looked 
forward to your being my partner, dear boy—to have you 
associated with me for a few years, perhaps until you 
marry; then I would turn the practice over to you entirely. 
It is an opportunity such as few young men get—a certain 
living, and almost certainly a good deal more. I have done 
well—very well, many people would say, when my invest¬ 
ments are taken into account. And Windbach is growing. 
However, we will think about it.” 

The schools at Cambridge. Professor Colstead on the 
value of negative indications. “A long series of experiments 
was necessary in order to prove that certain foods of high 
caloric value were not by themselves capable of maintaining 
life. Hopkins, basing a further series of experiments upon 
the negative indication, has demonstrated the existence of at 
least three substances which he calls accessory food factors. 
Professor Funk confirms this. He suggests the term Vita- 
mines, a supply of these substances being unquestionably 
necessary for animal life. It is not yet known what they 
are: they have still to be isolated and identified ...” 

A thrill of pride, accompanied by a stab of envy, tiny 
but sharp. He wrote to his father: “The discovery of 
Vitamines confirms what I thought. Don’t you think the 
isolation of them would be a good problem for me to begin 
on when I go down?” 

The father could not but be proud of his son. He wrote 
back: “It seemed to me at the time that your conjecture 


8 


“ QUACK ! ” 


was ingenious, and I am gratified at its being confirmed. 
But whether the field is a promising one, I am not competent 
to judge. As a practitioner, I should like to think that your 
researches might have some useful result. Is that the case 
here? Even if you succeeded in isolating these substances 
and determining their composition, how would therapeutics 
be advanced? As I read Hopkins and Funk, whatever these 
substances may be chemically, a sufficient quantity of them 
is provided by any mixed diet, and nothing is gained by 
increasing it. Where, then, is the practical value, actual or 
prospective, in this discovery? I do not wish to discourage 
you, but as you ask me, I must confess that I see 
none.” 

He had not been discouraged—far from it. He had 
applied himself to work with a greater zest than ever, and, 
as far as he could, pursued the phantom called for con¬ 
venience Vitamine B. His paper on Energy and Food- 
Values attracted attention. The name of Henry Harding 
Fullar was known in the scientific world before he left 
Cambridge with a full share of academical honours. 

His father’s face, surprised and pleased, when he an¬ 
nounced his intention of doing a year’s hospital work before 
embarking on research. “I may want to practise later on. 
If I succeed in running Vitamine B to earth, and it turns 
out as tricky as these injections of glandular juices—have 
you read about Vassale and Gley’s experiments with the 
thyroid?—I think I should want to go into practice—as a 
consultant, of course.” 

“There is nothing like practical experience, my boy. I 
daresay it can be arranged that you should be able to do a 
certain amount of laboratory work. And, by the way—I 
am going to make the allowance four hundred.” 


A LORD OF LIFE AND DEATH 


9 


“But you have a partner, now, dad—and beside, I shall 
get a salary.” 

“You won’t get more than a hundred or so, and I don’t 
wish you to feel like a pauper. I have been selling some 
land—the field behind Cartwright’s—you remember?—and 
several plots on the Chester Road. Values have gone 
up enormously since I bought, and I still hold a number of 
other plots.” The old man had been very generous. 

Then the bitter memories began. 

The grey afternoon on which, in his room in the Institute 
of Organic Research, he satisfied himself that the substance 
which he had isolated from a glandular secretion was new to 
science, and one of the immediate sources of energy—it 
seemed, probably the principal one. The intoxication of 
this achievement after five years of unremitting labour, and 
the blind fashion in which he had walked into what proved 
to be a cul-de-sac with a trap in it. He had been sure that 
the new substance was intimately related to Vitamine B— 
that Vitamine B must enter into the composition of it, or at 
any rate be necessary to its production by the cell-labora¬ 
tories of the gland: and he knew that his glory would be 
far greater if he could link his discovery to the elusive 
Vitamine, the nature of which had baffled all investigators. 

A conversation with his assistant, after months spent in 
attempts to establish the supposed connection. Many experi¬ 
ments had been made in the way of administering the 
new substance to animals, and the results had shown an 
increase of energy; but the scope of these trials had been 
limited. Harding had decided that he must give up the 
quest of the Vitamine, and extend the trials accordingly. 
He happened to notice that his assistant, who was a con¬ 
sumptive type, looked unusually well. 


10 


“ QUACK ! ” 


“Your health seems to have improved, Balmforth. I 
don’t remember that you have had so much colour since 
you came to the institute.” 

“You can bet your boots on that,” replied Balmforth, 
who had a slangy style in casual conversation. “I’ve been 
taking Jumpolene.” 

“Taking what?” 

“Well, sir, you haven’t given it a name, so that’s what 
we call it in the lab.” 

Harding frowned. “Somewhat risky, Balmforth. We 
don’t know all about it yet.” 

“We know enough to be able to say that it’s the most 
wonderful discovery ever made,” retorted the enthusiastic 
assistant. “When are you going to let it off on the public? 
Half the fellows in the Institute are wild to get it now.” 

Harding saw that Balmforth had been talking as well as 
acting unwisely, and reproved him. In the course of the 
following week, he learned that his discovery was known 
outside. The pictures became confused. 

He had sought advice from one of the governing body. 
He found that Sir William knew all about it, had only been 
waiting for a word from him to offer congratulations. 

“You wanted to make sure, of course. Quite right.” 

Harding explained the position. 

“Let me have a report. I will show it to Westleigh, and 
we will go into the matter with you.” 

Lord Westleigh was on the Council. He had been a great 
scientist in his day, but he was not perhaps the best man to 
advise as to publication, because in his day there were no 
lively little dailies with a million circulation. He came, saw 
some experiments performed, pronounced the evidence good 
enough, and at the next meeting brought the matter before 


A LORD OF LIFE AND DEATH 


11 


the Council. Another member of it was Sir Davis Garstin, 
one of the royal physicians. The two were old friends. 

Sir Davis had heard of the new discovery outside, and 
wanted to know what had caused the delay in announcing it 
officially. He was annoyed. The Institute existed for the 
advancement of the healing art. It was claimed that this 
new substance had a therapeutic value. Was the evidence 
good? If so, what was the objection to publication? 

The old fool! No one had the pluck to point out that 
the Institute did not exist primarily for the advancement of 
the healing art; it existed for the advancement of science, of 
which healing is only a branch. Lord Westleigh hummed 
and ha’d, said that the evidence was certainly good. A 
statement was drawn up for the Press. Harding’s request 
that the new substance should be named Fullamin, in com¬ 
pliment to his father, was acceded to. 

He had had doubts at the time—yes, he had. But he had 
supposed that these older men, who in any case were respon¬ 
sible, must know better than he. The congratulations which 
poured in upon him after publication banished his doubts. 
Outwardly he had borne himself modestly enough, but 
inwardly he had walked on air, been arrogantly sure that 
henceforward his position in the scientific world was 
unassailable. 

How well he remembered that reporter—a pasty-faced 
young fellow with dull brown eyes and more than the 
assurance of a commercial traveller! 

“Now, Dr. Fullar-” 

“Mr. Fullar. Be careful of that in your article.” 

“But you are a doctor?” 

“Yes. But we distinguish. I do not practise, so I call 
myself ‘Mr.’ ” 



12 “ QUACK ! ” 

“Thanks. Now, I suppose we may say this discovery of 
yours is important?” 

“Yes, I think you may say that. Its importance lies 
chiefly, for the present, in the fact that it marks a definite 
advance in our knowledge of the chemistry of energy- 
production.” 

“But people can take the stuff, can’t they?” 

“Yes, under medical advice.” 

“It won’t do them harm, anyhow?” 

“Not in such doses as would be prescribed. I don’t know 
that it would in larger doses, but I have not fully explored 
that possibility yet.” 

“Will it cure indigestion?” 

Harding smiled. “ ‘Indigestion’ is a general term for a 
number of functional disorders. It is possible that Fulla- 
min might be of benefit in some of them.” 

“In fact, it will do good?” 

“It might do you good,” said Harding, who wanted to get 
rid of him. He stepped closer and turned down an under¬ 
eyelid. “I thought so. You are anaemic.” 

“Always was. I get no good of my food. I’ve tried 
everything—tonics, patent medicines—no use.” 

“Well, try this. I will give you these three capsules. I 
cannot spare more at present, but these will be sufficient for 
you to find out whether it does you good. Take one now, 
another tomorrow, and the third the day after.” 

“I say—thank you awfully. Try it on myself, what? 
This is a great stunt. Am I the first?” 

“Not quite. My assistant here, Mr. Balmforth, was the 
first human subject for experiment. He will take you round 
the Institute, if you like.” 

It was a most unfortunate mistake, handing the fellow 


A LORD OF LIFE AND DEATH 


13 


over to Balmforth. Balmforth lacked the sense of propor¬ 
tion. He, Harding, had been too superior to talk to an 
ignorant cub like that: it had not occurred to him that he 
was just as ignorant of popular journalism as the reporter 
was of scientific matters. 

The article came out the next day but one, and began: 

“ ‘If you can’t stop those monkey tricks, get out of 
here,’ growled the sub-editor. 

‘But I couldn’t stop trying to stand on my head, and 
jumping over chairs, and playfully lifting a bigger fellow 
than myself and using him as a dumb-bell. The editor had 
sent me the day before to interview Mr. Harding Fullar, 
the discoverer of Fullamin, at the Institute of Organic 
Research, and Mr. Fullar had given me three doses of 
Fullamin. I have only taken two, and I feel like Sandow 
and Hackenschmidt rolled in one. What I shall be when 
Fullamin is on the market and I can get a regular 
supply . . 

It was nauseous nonsense. Harding was quoted, with the 
reservations left out. “ ‘I suppose we may say this dis¬ 
covery of yours is important?’ ‘Yes, I think you may say 
that,’ replied Mr. Fullar modestly. He prefers to be called 
‘Mr.’ instead of ‘doctor,’ although he is an L.R.C.P. as well 
as a B.Sc. ‘It marks a definite advance,’ he went on. 
‘Will it cure anaemia, for instance?’ ‘In many cases,’ 
replied the doctor, suddenly seizing me and making a 
lightning-quick examination of my eyelid.” 

Balmforth’s extravagant laudations of Harding and his 
achievements were quoted as if they had been uttered by 
Harding. He felt as if a gross caricature of himself were 
being held up to public derision. He sought the advice 
of Sir William as to how he could put himself right; he 


14 


“QUACK ! ” 


was told that he had made a mistake in not handing over a 
written statement to the reporter, and whatever he tried to 
do now by way of correcting that young man’s absurdities 
would only make things worse. 

Then the memories became very bitter. 

The article caused a sensation. Its mis-statements were 
widely quoted as authoritative, and even further distorted. 
The public demanded Fullamin, would not be persuaded out 
of the belief that it was a cure for all the ills of the flesh. 
Harding was reproved for his imprudence by two members 
of the Council, and although the reproof was couched in 
mild terms, it carried a sting. His colleagues and friends 
chaffed him, and he was made to feel that the profession 
disapproved of the way in which his discovery had been 
launched on the world. 

Worse was to come. Even before the storm broke, he 
had discovered that the apparent remedial value of Fulla¬ 
min was largely illusive. More extended tests showed that, 
while the bodily machine responded for a time, it was with 
a lessening degree of response, and beyond a certain point 
there were symptoms of toxication. 

He requested that a word of caution should be issued by 
the Council. This was done, but it came too late. A leading 
London physician wrote to the papers asserting that Ful¬ 
lamin was merely a muscular stimulant, and that its 
discontinuance produced the reaction characteristic of 
stimulants: the extra energy temporarily generated was 
paid for in languor afterwards. Other doctors said they 
had found the same thing. Harding could not deny that 
it was so in some cases. Then Sir Davis Garstin ratted. 
In a letter to The Times he declared that he had been 
misled. He had administered Fullamin in several cases, 


A LORD OF LIFE AND DEATH 


15 


and it had no effect at all. This brought Dr. Fullar into 
the field. In a vigorous reply he said that if Sir Davis 
had failed to find any result from the administration of 
Fullamin, the reason must be that the bodily energies of the 
patient were so nearly normal that the effect was imper¬ 
ceptible. Remedies were for people who were ill, not for 
imaginary invalids. He suggested that the reaction which 
other observers had noted might be avoided by gradually 
diminishing the dose. The intemperate tone of the letter 
grated on Harding’s sensitiveness, but he was grateful for 
the suggestion, and acted upon it. Finding that it answered, 
he went to Windbach to see his father and tell him so. 

A poignant picture. 

The polished surface of the dining-table glittered speck- 
lessly as of yore, but the older fashion according to which 
ladies left before the cloth was removed had given place to 
the more sociable modern custom. Penelope was married 
now, to the son of a local magnate: but Elsie stayed while 
Dr. Fullar sipped his port and talked. She was engaged to 
Fields, the partner. 

“Don’t be discouraged, Harding. You may have an up¬ 
hill road for a time, but you are on a new track. All that 
can properly be said against you is that the remedial value 
of Fullamin was over-estimated at first. I don’t know that 
you are to blame for that. Persevere. Take no notice of 
humbugs like Garstin. Garstin, indeed! He went through 
the schools with me, you know. Always a time-serving 
toady, alert to be on the popular side. Pass the port.” 

“You have had quite enough, papa,” put in Elsie. “You 
have said several times that two glasses ought to be your 
limit, and Charles thinks so too.” 

“Charles be hanged!” exclaimed the wrathful doctor. 


16 “ QUACK ! ” 

“Am I to have young men dictating to me? Let Charles 
attend to the patients.” 

“I don’t want you to become one of them, papa dear.” 

Harding thought that Elsie was right in counselling 
moderation. His father had aged greatly in the last few 
years. There were tell-tale signs—irritability, want of 
appetite, shortness of breath, and, after dinner, distension 
of the veins in the face. Before he went back to London, 
Harding had a talk with Fields. 

Fields said there was an aneurism on the arch of the 
aorta. “I have told him several times, after his fits of 
giddiness, that he ought to take things more easily. He 
won’t change his habits, you know.” 

A bundle of confused recollections, recalled pell-mell. 

The accumulation of adverse opinion. The realisation 
that the majority of medical men were cold-shouldering 
Fullamin, either because they were indifferent as to new 
remedies, or because they thought this one too doubtful. 
His resentment against fate when he read the report of an 
inquest at which it came to light that a large dose of Fullamin 
had been administered shortly before death supervened— 
not traceably as a consequence, the patient being in the last 
stage of exhaustion from loss of blood: the coroner was 
careful to say that. But post hoc, ergo propter hoc, is a 
valid maxim in relation to the popular mind—and, unhap¬ 
pily, as to the semi-scientific mind too often. He thought 
that day that his triumph had petered out in smoke, that 
there was nothing left but a little stink which would cling 
to him all his life. 

The ray of hope when a French scientist announced that 
the absorption of Fullamin was markedly increased, and the 
harmful after-effects diminished, when it was administered 


A LORD OF LIFE AND DEATH 


17 


along with a substance belonging to the pyramidine group. 
The suggestion made to him that, the credit of the Institute 
being involved, he ought to follow this up. The quarrel 
between Lord Westleigh and Sir Davis Garstin on the sub¬ 
ject, as a consequence of which the latter resigned from 
the Board. His consenting to do what the Board wished, 
much against his will—because Vitamine B was almost 
certainly connected in some way with the pyramidine 
group, and at the time he desired to consign practical prob¬ 
lems to the devil and occupy himself with the theoretic. 

The most galling incident of all, at the next meeting of 
the British Medical Association. The president, physician, 
deplored in his address “the tendency among those engaged 
in research to announce their discoveries prematurely, 
especially when a therapeutic value is claimed for them 
which is subsequently disproved. The public are not alto¬ 
gether to be blamed if they fail to distinguish the differ¬ 
ence between these methods and those of the advertising 
quack.” 

Harding’s inward rage had no bounds. He had laboured 
unceasingly for years at a task of the greatest complexity. 
His discovery constituted a step in bio-chemistry, which was 
his field: he had never claimed a therapeutic value for it, 
except in casual conversation with a reporter, and then only 
in the most guarded terms. The idea of trying to make 
money out of it had never even crossed his mind. And yet, 
the highest authority in the land compared him to a quack 
—all but called him one—under circumstances which made 
it impossible for him to justify himself. But he could 
retaliate, by making Sir Luke Morwell and Sir Davis Garstin 
and the rest of them change their tune. Fullamin had a 
remedial effect, slight but definite, on glands which were 


18 


“ QUACK ! ” 


functioning insufficiently; this was valuable, because no 
similar agent was known. 

Another poignant memory—the casual opening of a tele¬ 
gram which told him that his father had died suddenly 
from the bursting of the aneurism. His mixture of feelings 
when he learned the contents of the will. After providing 
for old servants and relatives in poor circumstances, leaving 
five thousand pounds each to Penelope and Elsie, and the 
practice to Charles Fields, the old gentleman had written: 

“The remainder of my estate I bequeath to my son 
Henry Harding, because I think he has been unfairly 
treated both by the medical profession and the public in 
regard to the discovery of the substance named after me/’ 

His inheritance had placed him beyond money troubles. 
It included a roomy house in Cadogan Gardens, which had 
lately been surrendered to his father under a mortgage. 
Although it was absurdly large for him, he had decided to 
live in it, so that Penelope and Elsie could stay with him 
when they came to town. 

More confused recollections, of the work of the subse¬ 
quent six years. The gradual establishment of Fullamin as 
a remedial agent, especially for glandular derangements, a 
task in which he had been assisted by other workers, notably 
certain Frenchmen, who had not only followed up their 
discovery of the first catalyst by adding others, but hit 
on the idea of using Fullamin with a retardent when 
a gland was functioning in excess. He had been quick 
to see the importance of this in connection with the new 
field of organo-therapy, and had developed the means of 
control until, intelligently used in combination with other 
substances, Fullamin gained its place in therapeutics. 
Honours had been bestowed on him—degrees, and mem- 


A LORD OF LIFE AND DEATH 19 

bership of learned societies. The London medical world 
had been won, little by little. His surprise when he found 
that men he had never heard of had a great admiration for 
him, in spite of the things that had been said. His 
diffidence at first when he was appealed to by one or 
another, his gratification at finding that his suggestions were 
listened to with respect. The pleasure of hearing subse¬ 
quently that he had hit the right nail. At first, the requests 
were merely for advice on the facts as they had already 
been ascertained, but soon it was—“Will you see the 
patient, and form your own opinion as to the condition? 
I should value it enormously if you would.” The glory 
of the day on which he had been called into consultation 
by Sir William himself, and the inward triumph with which 
he found himself laying down the law to the great man. 
The purely professional tributes, as when a leading surgeon 
accosted him at a reception at the Institute with, “Damn 
you, Fullar, if you go on performing wonders in the way 
of reducing enlarged glands, what’s going to become of our 
branch? Tell me about this new dodge with the pituitary. 
I have heard something, but I would like to have it from 
headquarters.” He had described the dodge, disclaiming 
originality, explaining that the idea had been borrowed 
from the French. His disclaimer had been met with, “That 
is all very well, but I foresee the time when there will be 
a specialist in London in functional disturbances due to 
derangements of the regulatory secretions, and his initials 
will be H.H.F. By the way, I have a case of the kind now 
rather interesting. Can you find time to have a look at 
the fellow?” 

His time had been encroached upon in this way until he 
had been told by Sir William and others that he ought to 


20 


“QUACK ! ” 


set up as a consultant, that his real field now lay in the 
direction which the distinguished surgeon had indicated. 
He had not been adverse from the step. He was, conscious 
that his outlook had changed. 

The change was the result of coming into contact with 
patients and patients’ relatives. It began with a feeling 
of power, of responsibility. He had experienced some¬ 
thing of the same kind in his hospital days, but to a less 
extent. In this later phase he appeared not as merely 
“the doctor,” or even as a doctor a little cleverer than 
ordinary doctors; he appeared as a scientist. Informed 
beforehand that as he was not in practice, his coming was 
a favour, the patients and their relatives treated him with 
immense deference, thanked him with a warmth that was 
an additional balm to his lacerated self-respect. Often 
there were letters afterward, sometimes letters enclosed in 
a package. “Dear Mr. Fullar—My wife and I both feel 
that it is largely owing to your instrumentality with God’s 
blessing that our dear Alice has been restored to health. 
Dr. Buckley says the same. We know of course that you do 
not take fees, but we hope you will oblige us by accepting 
the trifle enclosed. It is not offered in any way as payment 
for your invaluable advice, but as a token of our deep 
and lasting gratitude.” As a rule the trifle had been a 
pencil-case, match-box, cigarette-case, or other article of 
personal use; but sometimes it had taken odd forms, as 
when a costermonger left a basketful of vegetables at the 
house, having walked all the way from Covent Garden to 
do it. Such incidents were heartening and humanising. 
The warmth of feeling they induced had led him to take an 
interest in the patients themselves, in the conditions under 
which they lived, especially when those conditions were 


A LORD OF LIFE AND DEATH 


21 


largely responsible for their illnesses. It was not long 
before the sight of a rachitic child awaked wrath. What 
the devil was anyone doing to let a child get into that 
state when food was plentiful and cheap? 

He had learned. The parents of such children were trying 
vainly to earn enough to buy the food that was so plentiful 
and cheap, or wasting their money on beer instead, or—worst 
of all—feeding their children unsuitably out of ignorance 
and indifference. When the immensity of the problem 
dawned on him—the problem of how so far to improve 
the conditions of life that every child born into the world 
should have a reasonable chance—the fascination which 
purely scientific problems had had began to grow dim. 
He felt that the laboratory was too small a world, that 
his powers were equal to coping with the larger problem 
of the regeneration of the race. 

So, it had been arranged that he should enter into prac¬ 
tice, and there now remained only a formality—a meeting 
of the Council to receive his resignation as a member of 
the staff and elect him one of themselves. 

Interspersed with their disconnected flashes was a string 
of memories sharp and clear. They were of certain events 
in the last eighteen months. 

He had gone into the bacteriological wing one day to 
speak to a colleague, and had found him poring over a 
microscope. 

“What are you on with?” 

“Lond 257.” 

Lond 257 was a bacterium which had recently been 
discovered. 

“Have you made anything of him yet?” 

“I am inclined to think he is saprophytic. We found him 


22 


“ QUACK ! ” 


in the alimentary canal, you know. What bothers us at 
present is that we can’t cultivate him.” 

Harding said what he had come to say and turned to 
go. He found Balmforth, who had been transferred to 
the bacteriological wing, at his elbow. 

“Mr. Fullar, will you buy a ticket off me for the Amateur 
Dramatic Show? I want to sell as many as I can.” 

“All right, Balmforth. How much?” 

“Half a crown, five shillings, and ten and six. The 
tickets aren’t ready yet, but I expect they will be tomorrow. 
May I come across?” 

“Certainly.” 

Next day, Balmforth appeared with his tickets. He 
remarked in his inconsequent way: “I wish you could 
suggest something which will tempt Lond 257, Mr. Fullar. 
I’ve tried the blighter with everything except gin and 
Christmas pudding, and he turns up his toes every time.” 

(Bacteria are cultivated in media—preparations from 
which they can derive nourishment. Chicken jelly is 
popular.) 

Harding laughed. “I am not much of a bacteriologist, 
Balmforth. Ask Duggan. He is the expert.” 

Duggan was Harding’s new assistant. He had formerly 
been on the other side. Balmforth talked to him. After 
suggesting various media which had already been tried, 
Duggan said jeeringly, “Oh, give him Fullamin.” 

Balmforth’s sense of humour had gaps in it. He took the 
advice seriously. Two days later, he came in again. 

“You’re a nice bug-sharp, I don’t think,” he said to 
Duggan in an injured tone. “I took your tip, and the 
damned stuff killed him in a wink of a bee’s tail.” 

Something went click in Harding’s brain. 


A LORD OF LIFE AND DEATH 


23 


“What is that?” he asked, looking up from the manipu¬ 
lation of a pipette. “Speak precisely, Balmforth. What 
was the medium? What was the proportion of Fullamin?” 

Balmforth told him. The quantity of Fullamin used had 
been minute. “I thought it might buck him up—give him 
an appetite,” explained Balmforth. 

Harding had gone home in a brown study. 

The moment when he decided, after verifying the fact, 
that it would not be possible for him to carry out at the 
Institute the experiments necessary to ascertain the reason 
for it, without causing talk. Duggan, for instance, would 
think he was mad—or inspired. Also, from the Council’s 
point of view, his working time was fully occupied. The 
consequent fitting-up of one of the front attics in Cadogan 
Gardens as a laboratory. The long hours spent in it at night 
and early in the morning—sometimes all through the night 
until the early morning. The evening, comparatively lately, 
when he had been too tired to go upstairs, had sat on in the 
dining-room after he had finished his meal, thinking that he 
would have to give it up. There was no thoroughfare: the 
fact that Lond 257 perished with indecent abruptness when 
he was brought into contact with even a trace of Fullamin 
must be an isolated fact. His going upstairs involuntarily, 
turning up the lights, and the gust of irritation when he 
found that his nervous system had played him a trick. 
Then, the experiments at random, made only because he 
was too tired to go downstairs again immediately. The 
dumbfounded fashion in which he had stared at the result 
of one of them. He had been so much surprised that for 
a time he had not perceived the bearing of it. 

The light—the dazzling light. 

He was like a man who has been groping in a dark street, 


24 


“ QUACK ! ” 


and, just when he has come to the conclusion that it is a 
blind alley, stumbles, and accidentally pushes open a door 
giving upon a clear perspective. Not what he had been 
seeking—something quite unsuspected: for, what he had 
stumbled on was a super-catalyst for Fullamin—an ideal 
absorption-agent. 

When he came to prove its effects, he found them appar¬ 
ently illimitable; in combination with the new substance, 
Fullamin was capable of re-energising the body as a whole, 
or particular parts of it, according to the method of 
administration. He carried out a series of trials at the 
Institute, and although he tried to keep the dosage within 
prudent limits, some of the results were startling enough to 
puzzle Duggan, who did not know what was being used. 
There was the case of the dying monkey, for instance. 

“Dhuleep Singh is finished,” the assistant in charge of 
live-stock had observed one day. “He’s going out now.” 

The sick monkey was lying huddled in a corner of his 
cage, his eyes closed, breathing with great difficulty. Hard¬ 
ing made tests, ascertained the condition to be such that it 
was not possible by any means known to science to restore 
him to consciousness, and then injected a small quantity of 
the new remedy into the lining of the spinal cord at the neck. 
In five minutes Dhuleep Singh blinked, opened his eyes, 
lifted his head, evidently understood when his keeper spoke 
to him, even made a struggle to get up. Harding learned 
afterwards, from other trials, that it might have been pos¬ 
sible to enable him to get up, to restore him for a time, on 
the verge of death, to very nearly his normal energy. 

But there was a danger. He had given a large dose to a 
cancerous guinea-pig, and the disease had developed with a 
swiftness which it was not pleasant even for trained experi- 


A LORD OF LIFE AND DEATH 


25 


menters to see. Accustomed as he was to death-agonies, to 
make tests, and dictate notes while watching them, Mr. 
Henry Harding Fullar had been startled by the end of that 
particular martyr to science. 

Now he stood by the table in the laboratory at his house 
in Cadogan Gardens, and looked at the tubes that held the 
new remedy-—Fullamin-plus, he had named it. He was in a 
dilemma. 

Should he show them tonight at the Council meeting, 
make a statement as to the nature of their contents? If he 
did, the discovery would pass out of his hands. He would 
no doubt be asked to direct the necessary tests of its efficacy 
and after effects, but others would have to carry them out: 
he could not go back upon his decision to enter into practice, 
because the medical world had been informed. After a 
comparatively short time, the discovery would be published, 
and his name would necessarily be associated with it. That 
would do him no good as a consultant. It was quite all 
right now for the discoverer of Fullamin to be in prac¬ 
tice, because Fullamin was generally accepted and widely 
used: but for a new consultant to proclaim a new remedy 
would be a very different thing; it would savour of adver¬ 
tisement. Also, although no doubt in this case the pre¬ 
liminary tests would be as searching as possible, it was 
conceivable that what had happened before might happen 
again—in practice the results might prove disappointing. 
He dare not risk that. There was still a minority of medi¬ 
cal men, of whom Sir Davis Garstin was the chief, who 
pursed their lips and shrugged their shoulders when Fulla¬ 
min was mentioned. If the new remedy broke down, he 
would be delivered bound into their hands, and this time 


26 


“ QUACK ! ” 


there would be no mercy for him. His career as a con¬ 
sultant would be ended when it had barely begun. 

Whereas, if he kept his discovery to himself, and used it 
on occasion in practice, these gentlemen would have to com¬ 
pete with him when he was armed with a weapon of which 
they had no knowledge, a weapon which he would rarely 
need to use, but which would be valuable in cases in 
extremis . There would be little risk of being found out. 
The dosage was still a tricky problem with Fullamin when 
a patient was extremely weak, and the selection of the 
catalysts trickier still; he could make that an excuse to 
supply the medicine himself. The only risk was that some 
nosey general practitioner might send a capsule to an 
analyst: even so, few were the chemists who, not knowing 
what to look for, would find out all that it contained. 

He put aside the idea that he would thereby secure an 
advantage over his rivals: it was not worthy of him. His 
mind played with another idea. He might keep the secret 
and make use of it only when it seemed likely that it would 
be of advantage to the community to extend the patient’s 
life. The bell of the branch telephone rang. Florrie, the 
house-parlourmaid, spoke from the housekeeper’s room. 

“Mr. Sargent, sir, at Wapping Hospital, wants to speak to 
you.” 

“Put him through.” 

“Is that Mr. Harding Fullar? . . . Sargent speaking from 
Wapping. We have a case—rather a painful one. Man 
brought in this morning—just returned from South America 
—stepped off the ship, walked along the dock, and a box of 
heavy stuff slipped out of the sling of a crane and smashed 
him up. Fractures of the clavicle, scapula, humerus, and 
upper ribs, with intrusions ...” 


A LORD OF LIFE AND DEATH 


27 


He finished the technicalities. “He was a working engi¬ 
neer, and had been out there seven years. His wife couldn’t 
go to him, because there were two delicate children, and 
not too much money. They’ve been looking forward to 
seeing each other again—by what she tells me they seem to 
have been very fond of one another—and now of course he 
is unconscious and sinking fast. She would give all she has 
for five minutes’ talk with him.” 

Harding reflected. 

“I don’t know whether he ought to have mentioned it,” 
said the voice apologetically, “but your assistant, Willie 
Duggan, told me of a most remarkable experiment you per¬ 
formed on a monkey in the death-coma. And I know you 
are very kind about this sort of thing.” 

Harding looked at his watch. There was time for him to 
go to Wapping, try what he could do, and reach the Institute 
before the Council met. “I will come at once.” 

He took up the leather case, went downstairs, found his 
bag, and went out into the autumnal dusk. 

“Mrs. Penstey—this is Mr. Harding Fullar, the sciential 
I told you of. He thinks it is possible to bring your hus¬ 
band back for a time. But it may be that to do so will 
shorten his life—he may pass away more quickly because it 
has been done. Do you understand?” 

Red-eyed with weeping, the woman looked from one man 
to the other. Then she asked: “Would he know me— 
speak to me?” 

“I see no reason why he should not,” replied Harding. 
“But I want to be clear about this: he may collapse, after 
a period of consciousness; whereas, if no attempt is made 
to bring him back, he will probably live for several hours 
at least.” 


23 “ QUACK ! ” 

“But will he come to, if he is left alone? Will he be 
able to talk to me?” 

“As far as I can judge, it is not probable.” 

Sargent said: “I am afraid you must take it that he 
won’t, Mrs. Penstey. He will almost certainly slip away 
without recovering consciousness.” 

The wife turned passionately to Harding. “Then bring 
him to, sir, if you can. I know he would say the same. He 
said in his last letter he was just longing to see me . . .” 

Mrs. Penstey was summoned back into the ward. Alec 
looked just the same—as if, but for his tan, he would be 
very pale. Perhaps he was breathing a little stronger. The 
doctor, watching his face, didn’t seem to see any difference. 
The scientific gentleman had the tip of a finger on Alec’s 
uninjured &rm, and was watching that, as still as a 
sculpture. 

Then—the dying man sighed, stirred, opened his eyes. 
Mrs. Penstey started, choked back a sob. The doctor was 
startled too. But the scientific gentleman did not move, or 
take his gaze off the arm. 

The bewildered eyes came to rest on Mrs. Penstey’s face. 
The dying man said, weakly but with joy: 

“Lizzie!” 

“Oh, Alec!” 

“What’s happened? Where am I? I remember stepping 
off the gangway ...” 

As is usually, almost invariably, the case, the blow had 
eliminated, in stunning him, the record made in the memory- 
cells of the previous half-minute or so. Penstey did not 
remember walking along the side of the dock. 

“You got hurt, Alec. Something fell on you. You are 
in hospital.” 


A LORD OF LIFE AND DEATH 


29 


Penstey tried to move. He looked at Harding and 
Sargent, instinctively knowing them to be doctors. “Am 
I going to die?” 

“Not you,” said Sargent cheerily. “But you will fall 
asleep again presently, and your wife wants to talk to you.” 

He turned away, so as not to appear to be listening. 

The scientific gentleman didn’t. He remained where he 
was, watching the arm on which his finger-tip rested. 

The dying man talked. How were Bessie and Lex? He 
would like to see them. Lizzie was not to worry about him. 
He must have had a bad knock, but he was feeling all right 
now. Funny that he couldn’t remember anything after 
coming off the ship. He had had a pleasant voyage. There 
was a man on board he had known in La Paz. How were 
things looking in Walthamstow? Would he be able to get 
a job if Doran’s didn’t take him on again? 

His wife answered the last question by asking another. 
They went on talking, and Sargent, watching and listening 
covertly, said to himself that Harding Fullar was the Big 
Noise and no mistake. How on earth had he done it? The 
nearly-dead man was talking quite naturally, and his cheeks 
were pink- 

Hallo! what was happening now? His voice was failing. 

Harding spoke suddenly. “You must say good-bye and 
go, Mrs. Penstey. No, I cannot allow you to stay. Be 
quick.” 

What was that curious quivering movement under the 
skin? Mrs. Penstey bent over the—living? dying? living- 
dead?—man and tried to kiss him. 

“ He’s all sticky.” She looked round in bewilderment. 
She was hustled away. 

So was—the body. When what was left of Alexander 



30 “ QUACK ! ” 

Penstey had been deposited in the mortuary, the surgeon 
wiped his brow and looked at Harding with perplexed eyes. 

“My God, Fullar! That chap began to decay while he 
was still living.” 

“Inexact,” replied the scientist, outwardly unperturbed. 
He bent over the remains. “I over-stimulated cellular 
action, that is all.” 

“What did you inject?” 

“Fullamin-plus, a new absorption-agent.” 

Without intending it, he had virtually transgressed the 
rule that when two medical men act in conjunction, neither 
must keep anything connected with the case from the other. 

He paused on London Bridge to breathe the fresher air, 
took off his hat, let the wind play on his bared head. 
Although he had retained his self-control at the time, it 
was shaken now. It does not matter much what happens to 
a guinea-pig, except to the guinea-pig; but to see the co¬ 
ordinated activities which make a human being break up 
suddenly in a million-million energetically-separate organ¬ 
isms . . . 

He had known that it might happen—that was why he had 
watched so intently the cup-shaped depression made by his 
finger-tip on the subject’s arm. He had calculated the dose 
as nicely as he could, but it had been necessary to give 
enough to ensure quick action—otherwise the subject might 
have died before the injection took effect. Such accidents 
must occur occasionally in the course of experimental inter¬ 
ferences with Nature’s processes. And the woman had had 
her wish, which would have been also the man’s wish. He 
might otherwise have lingered through the night in coma, 
and died the next day. That was the alternative, and 
neither wife nor husband had desired it. 


A LORD OF LIFE AND DEATH 


31 


But it would be madness to put so powerful an energising- 
agent as Fullamin-plus into the hands of every practitioner: 
potent to save, it was also potent to slay. He must keep 
it to himself for a year or two at least, experiment with 
it. . . . 

Experiment with it. . . . 

He looked along the river as it curved north-westward: 
at the dotted lights on the City side, the long row of lamps 
on the Embankment, the great hotels with their glittering 
windows, the stately buildings round Whitehall, dim in the 
haze. Why should he not select the subjects for the experi¬ 
ments? Why should he look upon himself as bound to use 
the new remedy in every case when it would probably 
benefit the patient? Why not use it for the benefit of the 
world in the general sense? As long as it was his secret, 
it was not part of the medical armoury; as a doctor he was 
not bound to use it for any particular patient. 

Something recurred to him—a conversation he had had 
many years ago with his father. He frowned over the 
recollection for a moment, then dismissed it. 

When he moved away, his decision was taken. He would 
make the experimental trials of Fullamin-plus into a larger 
experiment—an experiment as to the practicability of intel¬ 
ligent selection. 


CHAPTER II 


The First Entry in Case-Book X 

The last case of the day had proved a difficult one, and 
the consultation had been prolonged. It was too late to 
go to the Institute. He went home. 

He had forgotten his latchkey. He rang the bell. 

The door was opened by his housekeeper. He glanced at 
her. Her eyes were red. 

“Is there anything the matter, Mrs. Snaith?” 

“It’s my niece’s little girl, sir—dyin’. Dorothy came 
here, and I sent Florrie home with her to carry some things 
I gave. I thought Florrie would be back before you 
arrived. You are a little earlier than usual, sir.” 

“It does not matter about Florrie. You did right to send 
her. What is the trouble with your niece’s child?” 

“It’s just weakness, sir. She had rheumatic fever. The 
doctors said she was cured of that, but she don’t pick up. 
She grows thinner and thinner. Dorothy really came this 
afternoon to ask did I think it would be any use your 
seein’ Lily.” 

Harding remembered Dorothy. He had seen her one day 
in the hall, when she had come to call on her aunt—rather 
a good-looking girl, with a businesslike air, and well 
dressed. He had not known she was married. 

“I should be glad to do anything I could. Who is 
attending the child?” 

“Dr. Brook, sir.” Mrs. Snaith’s eyes brimmed with 
tears. “I’m sure it’s very kind of you ...” 

32 


THE FIRST ENTRY IN CASE-BOOK X 33 


“Not at all. We must get Brook on the telephone, and 
ask whether he has any objection.” Harding went into the 
consulting-room, and took the Medical Directory from the 
rack of reference books. B—Br- 

“There are several Dr. Brooks. Where-” 

“Somewhere about Marylebone it will he, most likely. 
Dorothy lives in Hythe Street.” 

“J. H., M.D., 24 Lisson Grove. That seems the most 
likely. What is your niece’s name, by the way?” 

“Pelham, sir. Shall I go downstairs and switch you 
through?” 

“Please.” 

“Harding Fullar speaking. Is that Dr. Brook?” 

“Yes, Mr. Fullar. I know you by reputation, of course, 
though I have never had the pleasure of meeting you.” 

“You have a girl-patient—Lily Pelham-” 

“Yes.” 

“The mother is my housekeeper’s niece, and she sug¬ 
gested to her aunt that possibly I might be able to assist 
you.” 

Dr. Brook was willing to be assisted. 

“I shall be delighted. It’s a sad case, Mr. Fullar, 
although, except as to one feature, commonplace enough.” 
He outlined it. The acute stage had run a normal course. 
There had been endocarditis. It was not until after the 
patient had been discharged from hospital that the derange¬ 
ment in metabolism had manifested itself. “She ought to 
have remained in hospital, Mr. Fullar. But you know how 
it is—the mother was anxious to have her back at home, 
and I certainly thought then that the after-troubles would 
yield to time and ordinary treatment. Instead of that, they 
have become more marked, especially since the patient 





34 


44 QUACK ! ” 


caught cold a month ago. She is rather a troublesome child 
—the mother is out during the day, and Lily has to be left 
in charge of a neighbour or sometimes Mrs. Pelham’s 
sister: neither of them can control her. If she takes it 
into her head to do something, she does it: she slipped 
out one day and ran about the streets for two hours.” 

They arranged to meet at Mrs. Pelham’s flat in an hour’s 
time. 

Harding rang for Mrs. Snaith. 

“What sort of a child is Lily, as to her disposition?” 

“She’s a little angel sometimes, sir—I’m sure I never 
knew a sweeter-tempered child than she can be when she 
likes, and if she was only spared she’d grow up a credit 
to her mother I know-” 

After which it emerged by degrees that Lily was wilful 
and obstinate. “I think it’s partly her mother’s fault, sir— 
I do indeed. But then of course she has only the one, and 
an only child always is spoilt. It’s a misfortune in a way 
that Lily has no father-” Mrs. Snaith stopped abruptly. 

“Is the father dead, then?” 

“Not as far as I know, sir.” Mrs. Snaith’s lips shut in a 
firm line. 

She was sent out to buy something, something which she 
had bought on her own account a number of times in her 
life, but never before for Mr. Fullar. Why he should want 
it just then puzzled her. When she returned, he took what 
she had bought into the laboratory, and remained there 
until it was time to leave. 

His car passed the doctor a few yards from the door. Dr. 
Brook hastened so as to be able to greet his distinguished 
colleague on alighting. 

“This is an honour for me, Mr. Fullar. I know that I 




THE FIRST ENTRY IN CASEBOOK X 35 


owe it to an accident, but nevertheless it is a great honour.” 

A young, fresh-complexioned man, this Doctor Brook. 
Slightly jaded by overwork, but with a straight glance and 
a clear skin. 

They went up the stone staircase. 

“What have you been giving?” asked Harding. 

“I tried Fullamin first,” replied Dr. Brook—“a quarter 
of a grain twice daily with the salicylate. I am sorry to 
say that it appeared to have no effect. I have known it 
answer well in similar cases. Then I gave-” 

He seemed to have left nothing undone. 

“I may wish to administer something at once,” remarked 
Harding, as they reached the flat-door. “There seems to be 
some imminent danger, though not as much as the patient’s 
great-aunt led me to suppose. It would be a capsule con¬ 
taining-” 

He told Dr. Brook exactly what the capsule would con¬ 
tain—all but. “Have you any objection?” 

“Not the least, if you can get Lily to take it.” 

Dorothy opened the flat-door in response to the doctor’s 
ring. She looked worn, and greeted Harding with pathet¬ 
ically eager gratitude. 

“How has Lily been since I was here this morning?” 
asked Dr. Brook. 

“Just the same. She had some arrowroot about five.” 

They went into the bedroom. Seated in a corner, reading 
a magazine, was a slatternly girl, a bad copy of Dorothy, 
who introduced her to Harding in a perfunctory style. “My 
sister.” He bowed. Then he turned to look at the patient. 

A child of five—white-faced, sharp-featured, shrill-voiced 
—to a superficial eye, a long way off dying. She was 
protesting acidly. 




36 “ QUACK ! ” 

“I won’t ’ave the doctor touch me no more,” she snarled. 
“ ’E ’urts.” 

“Come now, Lily, you know I don’t hurt you,” said 
Dr. Brook good-humouredly. 

“You pinched me cruel the t’other day.” Lily referred 
to a very gingerly-conducted examination by the kind- 
hearted doctor. She began to sob, and the two women, 
who had already been fussing her, redoubled their atten¬ 
tions. She cried the harder, working herself up in response 
to their endearments. 

Harding spoke sharply. “Leave her to us.” 

Dorothy stared. Her aunt had always praised Mr. Fullar 
as “a nice-spoken gentleman—never hardly raises his voice”: 
and the tone cut—even Dr. Brook started slightly. 

“Come, Daisy.” She took her sister into the next room 
and shut the door. 

Dr. Brook felt a little uneasy. Research men like Fullar 
were over-accustomed to ignore suffering, to inflict pain 
when merely convenient. Dr. Brook had had experience 
of Lily, knew what a little demon she could be when she 
chose. How would Fullar deal with her? 

Harding’s method was simple. He sat down at the foot 
of the bed, motioned to Brook to sit down also, and re¬ 
mained silent, with his eyes fixed on the child. 

The silence made Lily wonder. Dr. Brook always talked 
to her when she was fractious. Her sobbing diminished to 
a whimper. She looked up. The grave gentleman was 
watching her. He smiled. 

Lily burst into a roar. “Go away! You—yer ’urtin’ 
me. Ma! Ma! Come, Ma!” 

The door opened and Dorothy appeared, flushed and 
apprehensive. Harding did not move or speak. Dr. Brook 


THE FIRST ENTRY IN CASE-BOOK X 37 


was at some distance from the bed. He made a humorous 
gesture. 

“Lily! why—the doctors weren’t touching you, you little 
liar!” Dorothy went out indignantly. 

“A sensible woman,” remarked Dr. Brook sotto voce. 

Harding made a gesture to him to be silent. 

Lily sulked. 

“I don’t suppose you can read?” remarked Harding 
unexpectedly. 

“Yes, I can. I’ve read a lot of books. Peter Pan and 
Peter Bunny and Jack the Giant Killer ...” 

“Which do you like best?” 

“About Jack.” 

“Why?” 

“Because he cutted of the giant’s head.” 

A silence. 

“I once cutted the head off a mouse,” proclaimed Lily. 

“How did you come to do that?” 

“It was in the trap. We’ve got a mouse-trap. I found 
a knife in the drawer, and cutted its head off. It bleeged.” 

“Now tell me what you like best to eat.” 

“Chocklits.” 

“Have you had any chocolates today?” 

“Ma won’t never give me none.” 

“Why not?” 

“Just ’er ruddy spite,” averred Lily. 

“Well, you shall have a chocolate afterwards if you don’t 
cry out while I examine you.” 

“Chocklit now,” said Lily. 

“All right, if you promise first that you will be good.” 

Lily shut her eyes and recited—“Wishamaydie if I 
scream or cry.” She appeared to mean it. 


38 


“ QUACK ! ” 


Harding took a small cardboard box from his pocket 
and looked at Brook. Dr. Brook made his humorous 
gesture. Harding handed Lily a chocolate cream. Lily ate 
it with satisfaction. 

“Now then. ...” 

She screamed before he even touched her, and continued 
to scream until her mother came back. Then she begged 
her mother to “stop the doctors ’urtin’ me.” Finally, she 
looked impudently at Harding and laughed in his face when 
the best examination possible had been made under diffi¬ 
culties. He bade her good-bye. 

The doctors went into the sitting-room. 

“What I see here,” began Harding in the tone that makes 
listeners sit up and attend, “is not a digestive system debili¬ 
tated as part of the general debility induced by the acute 
stage, but as the result of a specific organic derangement.” 

He went into technicalities. Dr. Brook listened with in¬ 
creasing respect: Fullar was not laying down the law off¬ 
hand, as some consultants did, but stating all the symptoms 
and relating them to a single cause. Minor points which had 
puzzled Dr. Brook were brought into the syndrome. This 
was the real thing, he thought as he drank it in. 

“Now as to the heart condition. You stated it roughly 
over the telephone. Have you anything to add?” 

Dr. Brook gave his view modestly. He did not think there 
was valvular disease, although there had been endocarditis. 

“I suggest that it might be well to have confirmation. I 
agree with you, but that goes for little, because I am not 
able to speak with authority. With your permission, I will 
ask Burroughs to see the patient and tell you what he thinks. 
I don’t anticipate that he will differ from you: but it can 
do no harm.” 


THE FIRST ENTRY IN CASE-BOOK X 39 

If Lily had been H.R.H. she could have had nothing 
better. 

“Now as to the history. How long have you been 
attending here?” 

“Three years—but only off and on, until lately. Mrs. 
Pelham isn’t one to call in the doctor for trifles. The little 
girl had tonsilitis, and purpura.” 

“Do you know the mother’s history?” 

Dr. Brook took the word in its medical sense, and replied 
that he did not. “She has never had anything the matter 
with her except influenza since I knew her.” 

“And the father?” 

“I never heard anything of him.” Dr. Brook’s tone 
implied that in his practice it was best not to inquire into 
patients’ private affairs. 

Mr. Fullar seemed undisturbed. “The history of the 
father in this case is important, because we have still not 
accounted for the unusualness of the acute form at so early 
an age. As to the child’s disposition—is that a fair sample 
we had just now, or is she less cantankerous when in normal 
health?” 

“She’s a wilful kid at her best,” admitted Dr. Brook rue¬ 
fully. “But clever. See how neatly she tricked even you.” 

He became conscious of a peculiar expression in the keen 
grey eyes that met his, and paused, wondering. 

“She took her medicine,” said Harding. 

“It was in the chocolate?” 

Harding nodded. “I assumed that you did not object 
when I looked at you.” 

“Oh, no. It will keep the heart going for a time. Do 
you wish the dose to be repeated?” 

“Yes, in three hours. I should like to have the pulse, 


40 


“ QUACK ! ” 


temperature, and respirations taken then, if you can manage 
it—or perhaps the mother can?” 

“I’ll do it myself,” replied Dr. Brook. “And tomorrow?” 

“One dose in the morning. Then leave it until Burroughs 
has seen her.” 

“If she is alive,” commented Dr. Brook internally. 

“Then we will decide definitely as to further treatment,” 
said Mr. Fullar, appearing to assume that Lily would sur¬ 
vive Sir John Burroughs’ visit. “Is there anything else 
you wish to say meantime?” 

“Nothing, except to thank you for going so thoroughly 
into detail with me. It’s a treat to hear one of you big men 
occasionally. I only wish I had the chance oftener. You 
lift a case onto a different plane.” 

“I want to talk to the mother. You need not stay, if 
you are busy. I merely wish to elicit something of her 
personal history, and the father’s, if she is disposed to be 
communicative.” 

They shook hands. Dr. Brook left, and Dorothy took 
his place in the little cheaply furnished sitting-room. 

Mr. Fullar said nothing to her for a time. He was an 
odd man, she reflected—given to queer silences, and so 
perfectly composed. Her fear of him vanished. She waited 
patiently until, after a couple of minutes, he looked at her. 

“Will Lily get well, Mr. Fullar?” 

“I cannot say yet. There will probably be a temporary 
improvement.” 

“You don’t think she—she might go—any time now?” 

“Not for the moment.” 

Another silence. 

“Tell me something about yourself—where and how you 
grew up, your subsequent history, and your health.” 


THE FIRST ENTRY IN CASE BOOK X 41 


“Oh, I have very good health. I’ve never been ill, except 
when Lily came, and colds, and headaches, generally be¬ 
cause the office is small, and four of us work in it. It 
gets close in the afternoons, especially when some of us 
bring our lunches and don’t go out in the dinner hour. 
I was born in Essex-” 

Dorothy’s history did not include a single reference to 
Lily’s father. She had been a typist in a City office for eight 
years, and for the past four years had acted as her em¬ 
ployer’s secretary. Lily had been born at Fulham, where 
she was then living. But of marriage, no word. 

“What can you tell me as to the medical history of Lily’s 
father?” 

Dorothy paled. She stared at Harding with frightened 
eyes. 

“I don’t know. He seemed all right when-” 

Her voice died away. 

“What manner of man was he in appearance—robust?” 

Dorothy seemed to find a difficulty in describing Lily’s 
father. “N-no. I don’t think so. I shouldn’t say that. 
He was—rather pale, and—but he seemed well enough.” 

She accented the word, and Harding thought—“well 
enough to have behaved vilely to you.” 

“Is he alive?” 

“Yes, Mr. Fullar.” Then—dragging the words out pain¬ 
fully—“I thought perhaps Aunt Annie would have told you. 
He’s in prison.” She burst into tears. 

Harding waited. 

“I’m sorry to be such a fool, Mr. Fullar. But—oh, it’s 
been awful coming home night after night, opening the 
door, and never knowing whether I mightn’t find Lily 
gone.” 


42 


“ QUACK ! ” 


Harding said: “You will find her here when you return 
tomorrow night, Dorothy.” He used her Christian name 
purposefully. 

She looked up quickly. “You think so?” 

Harding smiled—a slight, grave smile. “I don’t think 
so,” he replied. “I am sure.” 

Dorothy dried her face. “Thank you so much, Mr. 
Fullar. Ought I to—what do I do about paying you?” 

“You don’t pay me, except by following out whatever 
directions Dr. Brook gives you. By the by, all possible 
precautions should be taken against Lily doing anything 
imprudent. If she were to get up and try to lift something 
heavy, or over-exert herself in any way, no one could 
answer for the consequences. I understand from Dr. Brook 
that your sister and a neighbour take it between them to 
look after her during the day. I think you had better let 
me send you a nurse, just for a week or two. I know one 
who will do anything she can for you—look after the flat, 
and get a meal ready for you when you come home. She 
is a very nice girl, you will like her.” 

Dorothy looked troubled. “I am afraid I can’t afford-” 

“It won’t cost you anything, and you will find that she 
is not extravagant if you let her do your marketing.” 

“But, Mr. Fullar, I have never accepted help from any¬ 
body except Aunt Annie, when Lily was born, and-” 

“Your aunt has been a good friend to me. Let it go at 

that. By the way, Lily may be hungry in the night-” 

Dorothy interrupted. “Hungry? She hasn’t been hungry 
since she came from the hospital.” 

“Nevertheless, she may be tonight. I want you to give 
her milk, if you have any, or can get it—a small teacupful 
of warm milk.” 




THE FIRST ENTRY IN CASE BOOK X 43 


“I’ve got some peptonised food,” suggested Dorothy. 
“Mightn’t that be better?” 

“Certainly not. We should assist Nature to do her work, 
not do it for her.” 

(0 Eugenist!) 

“If Lily’s hungry tonight, I’ll never be able to thank you 
enough,” said Dorothy with a catch in her voice, as he rose 
to go. She looked after him with wonder, almost adoration, 
until he disappeared down the stairs. 

It was unexpectedly difficult. 

He was pacing the floor of his big drawing-room—a rather 
bare apartment, one of those unlived-in-looking rooms that 
a well-to-do bachelor has but never uses except when his 
woman relations descend upon him. He had come upstairs, 
after his delayed meal, because there was more space than 
in the consulting-room to tramp up and down. 

For the first time, he was face to face with the essential 
problem involved in the experiment he had embarked upon. 
He found it hard to banish a sentimental impulse to shirk 
consideration of the circumstances of this case and save the 
patient for her mother’s sake. He forced himself to weigh 
them impartially. First, was it probable that the patient 
would be restored to health if he withheld the benefit of 
his secret? On the whole, no. If he accorded it, was it 
likely that she would attain normal health and strength? 
On the whole, yes. He might actually have saved her with 
the dose he had given and the two he had authorised, 
minute as they were: it was impossible to foresee the quick¬ 
ness and extent of the reaction in a child of that age; if she 
only once ate with a healthy appetite, the deranged functions 
might begin to right themselves and then carry on. But that 
was not probable: the probability was that within thirty- 


44 “ QUACK ! ” 

six hours the effect of the doses would have worn off. He 
found himself wishing that it might not be so, and again 
had to conquer sentimentality. 

Was Lily Pelham worth saving from the point of view of 
the community? 

“Pelham.” He wondered what Dorothy’s name really 
was. Snaith? No—he remembered that Mrs. Snaith had 
once referred to her as “my own niece,” to distinguish her 
conversationally from a niece of the late Mr. Snaith’s who 
had also been to the house. Lily was almost certainly 
illegitimate—otherwise Dorothy would have said, “Then 
I married,” or something to that effect, in the course of 
her history. 

Illegitimacy was not in itself a point against Lily. An 
illegitimate child is not infrequently more vigorous, bodily 
and mentally, than the legitimate children of the same 
parents, when a marriage takes place afterwards. But that 
usually implies a certain amount of right feeling, however 
tardily displayed, in the father—often, a certain strength 
of character, inasmuch as a praiseworthy defiance of social 
narrow-mindedness is required for the righting of the 
wrong. In this case, what was to be inferred as to the 
father was against Lily. Her mother had evidently not 
known him well, therefore Lily must be the result of a 
temporary aberration on her part, which signified no good 
of him, because Dorothy was obviously not the kind of 
woman to yield to any but a peculiarly plausible scoun¬ 
drel. He was in gaol—deservedly, it might be presumed, 
otherwise Dorothy would have excused him in some way. 
It was not without significance in this connection that 
Lily had a streak of cruelty in her disposition—she had 
related the mouse episode with relish, and had evidently 


THE FIRST ENTRY IN CASE BOOK X 45 


enjoyed it at the time. She was headstrong, perverse, un¬ 
truthful, unscrupulous, cunning, and ungrateful—because 
she was quite intelligent enough to know that her mother’s 
refusal to give her chocolates was motived only by a desire 
for her welfare. 

It was a heavy bill against a child of five! 

In Lily’s favour. She was the daughter of a plucky, 
decent woman, who, finding herself in a painful and difficult 
situation, had faced it courageously and done her best. 
Whatever imprudence or foolishness Dorothy might have 
been guilty of in the past, she was a person to be respected. 
She would make an admirable secretary. Suppose . . . 

He recalled his thoughts. What was the probability in 
regard to Lily? Was she more likely to develop the charac¬ 
teristics which might be ascribed, roughly, to the father’s 
side rather than to the mother’s? Was she likely to have 
criminal tendencies? Much no doubt depended on the 
surroundings in which she grew up. How did Lily pass the 
day, when in health, while her mother was absent? No 
doubt the larger part of it would be spent at school, and in 
going to and coming from school. But her leisure? He 
had a vision of Lily hanging about the staircase of the flat¬ 
building: playing in the street: colloguing with other chil¬ 
dren and their elder brothers and sisters: learning many 
things . . . 

Lily was very sharp . . . sharp enough to deceive good 
painstaking Dr. Brook . . . and she had picked up all 
sorts of knowledge here and there . . . witness her 

language . . . 

But suppose she were translated into different surround¬ 
ings—peaceful, sober surroundings—-such as those of the 
airy, well-lighted basement of a house in Cadogan Gardens, 


46 


“ QUACK ! ” 


with her mother at home to look after her, and a capable 
great-aunt to assist? Dorothy, as his secretary, would have 
leisure to devote to Lily. Also, Lily would enjoy ample, 
regular meals, which it was scarcely possible for Dorothy 
to provide for her under the existing conditions. Lily 
might, then, shed her cantankerous perversity. Also, it was 
not fair to attach too much importance to her apparent 
predilection for the infliction of suffering. Many children 
are pitiless until the imaginative faculty awakes. 

It was really very difficult. 

“I ought to have a colleague,” he said aloud. “Someone 
who ...” 

He relapsed into silent thought. A colleague who would 
bring up points which had not occurred to him—possibly, 
even, in regard to some cases, take a standpoint outside his 
circle of ideas. Someone who could discuss—throw the 
ball back with an addition sticking to it . . . 

“I must have a separate case-book for these special cases,” 
he thought. “Special cases—those in which it was necessary 
to consider whether Fullamin-plus should be given or not— 
the cases in which an indeterminable factor had to be 
reckoned with, the possible results of bestowing or with¬ 
holding the gift. “X.” That would be appropriate— 
‘Case-Book X.’ ” 

While his mind was superficially occupied with this 
trivial question, it automatically came to a conclusion on 
the important one. For want of someone else to convert 
his adverse view into a decision by supporting it, he must 
give Lily the benefit of the doubt. He would also give 
her the benefit of the best possible chance. He would 
offer Dorothy a hundred a year, and her keep and Lily’s, 
to come and live in Cadogan Gardens and act as his secre- 


THE FIRST ENTRY IN CASE BOOK X 47 


tary—type his letters, keep his books and records, arrange 
his appointments. Then, Lily would have every chance— 
including, probably, that of sound health. 

“I’ll do it,” he said aloud. 

It never occurred to him that Dorothy might refuse. 


CHAPTER III 


The Charnleigh Millions 

“Lady Charnleigh speaking. Do you remember me, Mr. 
Fullar? We were at Windbach Hall ...” 

“I remember you perfectly, Lady Charnleigh.” 

“We are in the most dreadful distress, Mr. Fullar. Lord 
Charnleigh is very ill. You may have seen in the 
papers-” 

“Yes. I was sorry to do so.” 

“Thanks. We have tried everybody—had in all the 
leading men. Dr. Waynford, who is in charge—Dr. Wayn- 
ford of Harley Street—suggested just now that you ought 
to have been called in first. I knew about you, of course, 
but I had no idea you practised.” 

“I have only lately begun to do so.” 

“Well, now—do you think you can help us?” 

“I shall be glad to assist Dr. Waynford if I can. Do 
you wish me to come over tonight?” 

“Please—at once. Waynford is here—he doesn’t leave 
the house. There isn’t a minute to lose.” 

The tone was peremptory. Harding remembered Lady 
Charnleigh—Lady Groost she had been then. Sir John 
Groost had taken Windbach Hall for a summer, and had 
graciously allowed the annual garden party for the benefit 
of the hospital to be held in the grounds as was the custom. 
Ten years ago, was it?—no, eleven—twelve: he had been 
anxiously awaiting the result of his Final at Cambridge. 
Lady Groost had played hostess—a handsome young 
woman, like a highly-coloured vulture, active and domineer- 

48 



THE CHARNLEIGH MILLIONS 


49 


ing: she was her husband’s junior by nearly forty years, 
and according to the Windbach gossips had been his first 
wife’s nurse during the latter part of a long illness. There 
were two daughters—no, the elder girl, the red-haired one, 
with whom he had fraternized over clock-golf, was Sir 
John’s granddaughter; it was the apathetic moon-faced child 
who was the daughter; according to the gossips, she was 
not much better than half-witted. They—the gossips— 
had made marvel of the fact that she was the elder girl’s 
aunt. What was that elder girl’s name? Colwell— 
Corliss—Carwell—some name like that. She was intelli¬ 
gent for her years—perhaps sixteen. Her father was some¬ 
body well-connected who had married Sir John’s daughter 
by his first wife. In spite of that and Sir John’s being a 
millionaire, the county magnates had looked upon the 
family as a doubtful kind of people. There had been stories 
about Lady Groost . . . 

He rang the bell. Dorothy answered it. 

“ ’Phone for the car to come at once. And I want three 
fresh tubes put into my bag—A, B, and C, as usual.” 

“Yes, Mr. Fullar.” 

“Lily gone to bed all right?” 

Dorothy flushed. “If ever there was a troublesome child 
—she threw her bread-and-milk on the floor because I 
wouldn’t let her have any of the meat we were having, and 
when I tried to make her mop up the mess, to save Florrie 
doing it, she absolutely wouldn’t.”—Dorothy’s eyes were 
bright with unshed tears.—“It really seems as if being well 
and strong has made her more obstinate than ever. They 
can’t do anything with her at school.” 

“She may grow out of it,” said Harding. “Children 
often pass through a phase of that kind.” 


50 “ QUACK ! ” 

“It’s very good of you to say so. I hope so, I’m sure.” 
Dorothy sped. 

Harding took down Who’s Who. 

“CHARNLEIGH, John Henry Groost, 1st baron. Cr. 
1892. 3d son of Cornelius Groost, merchant-banker, of 
London. Educated at Merchant Taylors. Kn. 1865. M. (1) 
Helen Mary St. Just, eld. d. of Rev. David St. Just of Haller- 
ton, Salop. (1 d. Katrine Mary) (2) Anna, d. of John Hodg¬ 
son of Oldham Lancs. (1 d. Patricia Victoris) Sen. partner 
Hatz, Groost & Co., 11 Old Broad Street, E.C. Director of 
the Bank of England, chairman of the Northern and West¬ 
ern Bank, director of the Inter-Oceanic Navigation Trust, 
the Imperial Bank of Africa . . 

“Oh, Mr. Fullar, I am so glad to see you!” 

Harding shook the plump beringed hand extended to him. 

“This is Dr. Waynford-” 

Harding bowed to a high-complexioned man with sleek 
black hair brushed flat down on his head and a tiny mous¬ 
tache with bristling points. He had a red moist mouth, 
small eyes, and was groomed with excessive scrupulousness. 

“Now, Mr. Fullar, the position is this. Charnleigh is 
unconscious. Dr. Waynford thinks he is sinking slowly”— 
Lady Charnleigh pressed a scrap of lace to her eyes and 
produced a creditable imitation of a sob—“and we are all 
here—all the family—and there are very important matters 
to be settled. He must be brought round-” 

“One moment. I think it will be best if you allow me to 
have a talk with Dr. Waynford first, and then see the patient. 
Afterwards, you can explain what it is you wish done, and I 
shall be able to tell you whether it is possible.” 



THE CHARNLEIGH MILLIONS 


51 


She shot a quick, hard glance at him, seemed disposed to 
dispute his right to lay down his course. 

Harding was his father’s son. “If Dr. Waynford and I 
can have the use of another room-” 

“Oh—I’ll leave you.” She turned to Waynford. A 
glance passed between them. She went out. 

“It’s a simple case,” observed Waynford in a casual tone. 
He lounged to a chair. “The old boy has been wearing out 
for years. He is nearly eighty, you know. A fortnight ago 
yesterday—no, the day before—there was a cerebral haem¬ 
orrhage—slight, but sufficient in his condition to upset the 
balance. He has recovered consciousness several times, for 
a few minutes-” 

“Without external aid?” 

“Er—no. Various means have been tried—I’ll go into 
that presently. I don’t know whether Lady Charnleigh 
told you—I’ve had Parrinson in, Sir Hugo Dalbent, Myles 
Fiske, Sir Lawford Dunn ...” 

He recited his list of distinguished names with languid 
gusto. 

“Of course, I ought to have called you in before. But 
the fact is—perhaps Lady Charnleigh told you—I didn’t 
know until today that you had taken up practice. I’ve been 
so frightfully busy all this year—this case, now—I’ve 
hardly been out of the house for a fortnight.” 

Yet he was “frightfully busy.” 

“So I’ve been out of touch. But it was unpardonable of 
me—no, really it was-” 

Harding had not demurred. 

“However—better late than too late, eh? Well, now, 
everyone has been of practically the same opinion. There 
is nothing to be done—nothing in the way of permanent 



52 “ QUACK ! ” 

restoration. I don’t anticipate that when you see the patient 
you will form a different opinion. All the better if you 
do. Now perhaps you’d better see him.” The Harley Street 
man rose. 

Harding remained seated. He did not approve of Dr. 
Waynford’s casual style. 

“You tell me there has been cerebral haemorrhage. Have 
you had radiograms?” 

“Oh, yes. Here you are—nothing much on them, though.” 

He took a number of photographic prints from a drawer 
in a gorgeous Buhl cabinet and flung them on to the table 
by which Harding was sitting. 

There was not much to be learnt from them. 

“Now as to the means used to induce a return of con¬ 
sciousness. I should like details.” 

“Well, we’ve tried almost everything—injections of caf¬ 
feine and camphorated oil, leeches behind the mastoid proc¬ 
esses, ice compresses on the head, mustard plasters on the 
lower limbs ...” 

The consultation, if it could be called one, continued on 
these ambling lines on Dr. Waynford’s part. Harding con¬ 
tented himself with questions. He refused to be drawn by 
—“You concur, I’m sure?”—and similar suave phrases. 

It seemed useless to prolong the interview. They went 
into the sick-room. A middle-aged nurse, who was seated 
in an armchair, rose at once and stood with downcast eyes 
in an attitude of respectful attention. She had a hard 
face and thin tight-set lips. 

The patient lay on his back, his grey, lined face turned 
expressionlessly to the ceiling. It was not specifically a bad 
face, nor specifically a good one. A man who achieves, by 
whatever road, a colossal fortune, is unlikely to have found 


THE CHARNLEIGH MILLIONS 


53 


the road unbarred and unencumbered in his progress. Un¬ 
barring gates and clearing encumbrances out of the way 
cannot be done gently. Only the worn, strain-soiled face was 
visible. The upper part of the head was covered with a 
bandage. 

“Take that off, please.” 

The nurse glanced at Dr. Waynford as if in uncertainty. 

“Er ...” 

Harding made a peremptory gesture. The nurse removed 
the covering. 

“Why was his head shaved?” 

“Er . . . the radiographist ...” 

There was a red patch on the top of the bald crown— 
powdered over somewhat thickly, but still clearly visible. 
Harding made no remark on this. 

“Your charts-” 

The nurse produced them instantly and offered them sub¬ 
missively. 

“How long have you been in charge of the case, nurse?” 

She had to look at him. “Only since Tuesday.” Her 
eyes were a dull slaty black. 

Harding looked at Waynford interrogatively. 

“Her predecessor wasn’t satisfactory,” said that gentle¬ 
man in a curt tone. 

Harding made his examination. 

“I think that is all,” when he had finished. “Will you 
be so kind as to let Lady Charnleigh know-” 

“Just a minute,” interrupted Waynford hastily. “Come 
in the other room.” 

They returned to the room they had left. 

“Now you’ve seen for yourself, you are of the same 
opinion as the rest of us, aren’t you?” 


54 


“ QUACK ! ” 


“As to the general condition—approximately, yes.” 

“Quite so. I felt sure you would be. Now, look here, 

Fullar-” Dr. Waynford’s tone was unduly familiar. 

“-between ourselves—as men of the world—Lady Charn- 

leigh is very anxious that the old boy should come back to 
life for a few hours. The first time he recovered the use 
of his faculties at all, he didn’t even know her. He asked 
for his first wife—dead twenty years. Subsequently, he 
did recognise her, but didn’t know where he was. Now, 
that’s no use. What Lady Charnleigh wants is that he 
should recover the complete use of his faculties for long 
enough to deal with certain business matters.” 

“What kind of business matters?” 

“I don’t know—connected with his testamentary dispo¬ 
sitions, I imagine. That’s usual, isn’t it?” 

Harding expressed no opinion. 

“And—this is strictly between ourselves, of course?— 
you can name your own fee. She offered me a thousand this 
afternoon if I could bring it about. But I can’t. No ordi¬ 
nary practitioner can. Now, you’ve specialised in energy 
production. I heard about that case at Wapping Hos¬ 
pital-” 

“I will reserve my answer for the present, with your 
permission. There is nothing more?” 

“But—look here. I’ll split that thousand with you if 
you can wake the old boy up—apart from anything you 
arrange for yourself with Lady Charnleigh. Now what do 
you say?” 

“Before I undertake anything, I must know exactly what 
it is Lady Charnleigh wishes Lord Charnleigh to do.” 

Waynford pulled his thick red lips down into a wide half¬ 
circle and turned away. Harding went along the corridor 


THE CHARNLEIGH MILLIONS 


55 


thinking angrily—“I wish that chap could have half an 
hour of my old dad. I’m not up to this kind of thing.” 

Lady Charnleigh welcomed him with easy friendliness. 

“Sit down, Mr. Fullar. Do you smoke?—Let me offer 
you a cigar.—Won’t you, really?—Is there anything you 
would like?” 

“Nothing, thank you.” 

“Now tell me. Can it be done?” 

“I must know what it is you wish done before I can 
answer, Lady Charnleigh.” 

“Did not Dr. Waynford explain? I asked him to.” 

“He merely said that you wanted Lord Charnleigh to be 
enabled to attend to certain business matters.” 

“That is exactly what I want. But he must be fully com¬ 
petent, Mr. Fullar—that is to say. it must seem so to those 
present, because they may be called upon subsequently to 
testify that he appeared to understand what he was doing.” 

“I think I comprehend you as to the mental condition, 
but what is the business with which you wish Lord Charn¬ 
leigh to deal?” 

“Legal business.” 

“I must ask you to be more explicit.” 

Lady Charnleigh regarded Mr. Fullar fixedly. “Can you 
enable him to deal with such matters?” 

“How can I tell you until I know what they are?” 

“You want to have details?” 

“I must, if I am to decide whether it is possible to enable 
him to deal with them.” 

“I don’t see why, Mr. Fullar. Surely for you it is purely 
a medical question. Can you restore to my husband the use 
of his faculties sufficiently for him to deal with any such 
matters—that is all that concerns you, as a doctor, isn’t it?” 


56 “ QUACK ! ” 

“I differ from you, Lady Charnleigh. What I have to 
decide is whether these matters are sufficiently important to 
justify me in bringing the patient back to consciousness.” 

“But surely it is your duty to do everything you can for 
him.” 

“You are not asking me to do anything for him. You 
are asking me to do something, which cannot benefit him, 
because you wish it to be done. Unless you explain to me 
exactly why you wish it, and what he is to do, I cannot 
help you.” 

Lady Charnleigh had had a considerable experience of 
doctors, but this one seemed to be of a new sort. She 
frowned. 

“If it is a question of the fee-” 

“It is not.” 

Decidedly, a difficult person to deal with. 

“Very delicate considerations are involved, Mr. Fullar. 
I am loth to confide in anyone outside the family.” 

“You may have confidence in my discretion, Lady 
Charnleigh.” 

“I am sure of that.”—Lady Charnleigh smiled winningly. 
—“There has been trouble. My daughter made an unfortu¬ 
nate mistake, and in order to prevent the worst happening it 
is necessary to undo certain legal arrangements. Briefly, 
Patrice married a man who ill-used her and was unfaithful 
to her. She took refuge with us. I am sure you will agree 
that was the right thing for her to do under the cir¬ 
cumstances?” 

“It usually is,” admitted Harding. 

“I am glad you approve. The poor child asks for noth¬ 
ing better than to be let alone. But, unfortunately, her 
husband will not leave her alone. He is moving heaven 



THE CHARNLEIGH MILLIONS 


57 


and earth to get her back, fearing lest she should bring a 
suit for divorce and so sever her connection with him per¬ 
manently. I am sorry to say that the reason he seeks to 
have her back is not that he any longer cares for her. He 
did, for a short time after they were married, but all that 
has completely passed. His motive is purely sordid. Lord 
Charnleigh made a settlement on Patrice, and the principal 
will become payable to her immediately if he dies. There¬ 
fore, Mr. Alaten is very anxious indeed to get her back, 
relying, as unfortunately he may reasonably do, on the 
persistence of her affection for him. I don’t remember 
whether you met Patrice at Windbach—did you?” 

“Yes. How old is she now?” 

“Nineteen. She is not what is usually called a bright 
girl, though she has more character than her appearance 
leads people to suppose. But where she loves she is weak. 
That might be said of many able and highly-gifted people, 
Mr. Fullar ” 

“True,” said Harding reflectively. 

“But we should be strong for those we love. It is a duty 
imposed on us. I must save Patrice if I can, and there is no 
way to do it except by annulling the settlement. Lord 
Charnleigh was indisposed to take so drastic a step immedi¬ 
ately after her return to the shelter of our roof. He thought, 
and I agreed with him at first, that the differences between 
the young people might be composed. We were not then 
fully informed of the nature of them—my daughter was un¬ 
willing to speak out all at once. It became clear later on 
that they neither could nor ought to be composed. What¬ 
ever the church may say, it is not right that a young girl 
who has made a mistake should have to suffer for it all her 
life.” 


58 “ QUACK ! ” 

Harding had an idea that it might have been better to 
leave the church out. 

“But I could not induce Lord Charnleigh to act even after 
that was made plain to both of us. He took the view, and in 
the case of other girls there might be much to be said for it, 
that it was for Patrice to decide for herself whether she 
would allow her husband to share her fortune or not. The 
settlement, he argued, was on her, not on him. I did my 
best to help him to realise that in Patrice’s case the argu¬ 
ment is not valid, but it was unfortunately too late when at 
last he came round to my view. He did come round entirely, 
after a conversation he had with Patrice in my presence. 
She told him, in the plainest terms, that she was conscious of 
her own weakness, that if her husband regained possession 
of her she would not be able to resist complying with any 
demands he might make in regard to money matters. That 
means that he would obtain possession of her whole for¬ 
tune piecemeal.” 

“Are there no trustees?” 

“No. I regret to say that at the time Lord Charnleigh 
trusted Mr. Alaten absolutely. So did I. We were both 
deceived in him as much as poor Patrice was. So you see 
now, don’t you, Mr. Fullar, that there is no way in which 
I can save my child from lifelong unhappiness except by 
using whatever means are necessary to enable Charnleigh to 
do what he would have done if he had not been taken ill the 
very day he was?” 

Harding reflected. “I cannot answer that question off¬ 
hand, Lady Charnleigh.”—He saw that she did not catch his 
drift.—“As to whether there are means by which you 
might be able to protect your daughter other than the annul¬ 
ment of this deed. It is more a question for your lawyers.” 


THE CHARNLEIGH MILLIONS 


59 


“Oh—you may take it from me there is no other way. 
Now—will you try what you can do?” 

“I will let you know tonight.” 

“There is no time to be lost.” 

“I am aware of it. You will hear from me within two 
hours.”—He rose. 

Again Lady Charnleigh regarded him fixedly. What was 
the way to deal with this man? He seemed to be made of 
stone.—“Is there anything else you wish to ask me?” 

“I think not.” 

“Are you sure? You have quite conquered me, Mr. 
Fullar. I am entirely at your disposition.” 

Harding bowed and turned to leave the room. 

“One moment. A footman will conduct you.” Lady 
Charnleigh pressed the jewelled button of a chased-gold 
bell-push which lay on the table by her chair. During the 
pause that followed, Harding’s eyes wandered over the 
cunningly devised setting for physical charms constituted 
by the furniture and decorations of the room. 

“Are you quite sure there is nothing else, Mr. Fullar?” 

As he went along the corridor, followed by the footman, 
he found himself asking what the handsome lady’s tone had 
really meant, and wishing that he could ask someone— 
someone who knew the facts and would speak honestly— 
how far her story represented the truth. He had not much 
knowledge of feminine wiles, but he had a considerable 
experience of the manner in which ugly or disagreeable 
facts are sometimes glossed over when patients or their 
friends confide in the doctor, and he felt certain that Lady 
Charnleigh had not been unreservedly frank. She had 
talked as if she were in no way responsible for her daugh¬ 
ter’s unhappy position, as though the fiasco of a marriage 


60 “ QUACK ! 

with a self-seeking scoundrel, for a girl only nineteen, were 
something which left no imputation on the mother. She had 
“trusted Mr. Alaten entirely.” She seemed to have been 
casual about it. The expression of her desire to avert the 
worst consequences of this “unfortunate mistake” on her 
daughter’s, not her own, part, was too fluently phrased to 
be altogether convincing. “So you see now, don’t you, Mr. 
Fullar, that there is no other way in which I can save my 
child from lifelong unhappiness-” 

Why was there no other way? There might be. 

He descended a first flight of thickly-carpeted stairs to a 
landing, whence a second flight led in the reverse direction 
to the hall. As he turned the corner, he noticed that a door 
opposite the foot of the stairs was ajar, and the room within 
lit up. His foot was on the lowest stair when the door was 
opened wide from inside and a girl appeared. She was a 
little under the middle height, straight and slim, with large 
grey eyes and auburn hair—or was it red-gold? The light 
reflected from a mirror behind her was shining through it. 

“I heard that a Mr. Fullar had been sent for, and I was 
wondering whether-” 

Her manner was indifferent. 

“I remember you perfectly, Miss Carstairs.”—The name 
came to mind automatically.—“I am only sorry to meet 
you again now because of the circumstances.” 

Her expression did not change. She scanned him. “I 
am not sure whether I recognise you. Will you come in for 
a minute?—You need not wait, Selby. I will show Mr. 
Fullar out.” This was to the footman. 

Harding went into the room. There was a chair directly 
facing the mirror, and another a little to one side. Miss 
Carstairs motioned him to the latter, and took the former. 



THE CHARNLEIGH MILLIONS 


61 


As she had left the door wide open, he turned to push it to. 

“Leave the door as it is, please.” 

She had a very level utterance, and in this case the level¬ 
ness gave the words point. He felt as if he had been 
reproved for an indiscretion. 

“I thought you might wish to ask me as to your grand¬ 
father’s condition, and that it would be as well if we were 
not overheard.” He moved the chair assigned to him so 
that it faced hers. 

“I would rather you did not sit facing me. If you will 
put your chair back as it was, you can see me in the mirror.” 
Again the indifferent tone carried with it a curious compel¬ 
lingness. 

Wondering, he obeyed her, and sat down. 

“Have you agreed to try to do what Anna wants?” 

It seemed odd that she should refer to her step-grand¬ 
mother as Anna: but probably that lady did not wish the 
degree of relationship to be emphasized. 

“No. I am not sure that it is justifiable.” 

Miss Carstairs glanced at his reflection in the mirror. 
There was a faint question in her eyes, and now he knew 
that it had been there when she invited him into her sitting- 
room. 

“Is it possible to do it?” 

“I cannot be certain, but I think so.” 

Miss Carstairs turned her eyes away again. Harding 
waited for her to continue the conversation. After a while 
he noticed that although she was evidently thinking what she 
should say, she was also watching the stairs. No doubt, 
the arrangement of the chairs was for that purpose. It 
seemed extraordinary. 

He glanced round the room, which was more simply 


62 


“ QUACK!” 


furnished than the rest of what he had seen of the gor- 
geously-luxurious house. Books—a considerable number 
of scientific and medical works on the shelves on each side 
of the mirror; others, the character of which he was not so 
easily able to recognise, round the fireplace. Some good 
prints, all having a common characteristic—what was it? 
A kind of vague reaching after spiritual beauty? A few 
pieces of fine china. . . . 

Still she did not speak. 

He examined her appearance, gazing at her reflection in 
the mirror. He could not tell whether she knew that he was 
looking at her or not. If she did, she was unmindful of 
the scrutiny. He had noticed certain peculiarities in her 
movements, slight, but significant. Now he said to him¬ 
self—“arrested myasthenia: there has been some degree of 
muscular dystrophy earlier”—and, remembering the gift in 
the tubes in his bag, wished he could prescribe for her. 
Manlike, he did not take in the details of her attire—a black 
and green dinner frock, cut in a shallow semi-circle at the 
neck, with elbow sleeves, and a curious necklace of oblong 
pieces of jade attached by their ends to a broad band of 
filigree work in dull gold: he merely had a sense of satis¬ 
faction in regard to it. 

Suddenly, he perceived himself. For the first time in his 
life he became aware of the physical presentment which 
Henry Harding Fullar exhibited to the world. He saw in 
the mirror a heavily-built tall man, with thick, untidy hair 
of an indefinite brown already grizzling a little, and lines 
in a long, strongly-featured face. Hang it, he was only 
thirty-six! His professional morning coat—he had never 
acquired the habit of evening dress—was shabby, and old- 
fashioned in cut. How long had he had it? It wrinkled 


THE CHARNLEIGH MILLIONS 


63 


badly at the shoulders. He perceived that his tie was shab¬ 
bier still, and not at all neatly tied. He wondered vaguely 
whether it was because he was a bachelor that . . . 

“Mr. Fullar, don’t try to restore my grandfather to 
consciousness. He is going, isn’t he—passing peacefully 
away? Let him so pass. Don’t drag him back to be 
badgered into doing something that he does not understand. 
I implore you.” 

Her language astonished him. The vehemence of it was 
like the rising up of a great wave in a still sea. More sur¬ 
prising still was the contrast between her words and the 
manner in which they were uttered. She spoke in exactly 
the same level tone as before. There was no sign of emo¬ 
tion in her face, no hint of tears in her eyes. 

“Lady Charnleigh tells me,” he replied choosing his 
words with care, “that your grandfather made up his mind 
before he was taken ill to do what she wishes him to do.” 

“You may believe that, if you like.” 

“You know what she wants done?” 

“Of course—to annul the settlement on Pat.” 

“And why she wishes it?” 

Miss Carstairs smiled, and her smile chilled him. How 
old was she? Twenty-five, twenty-six? The smile made 
her look like a woman who has seen all the evil that is under 
the sun and become indifferent in regard to it. 

“I suppose she told you that it was to protect Pat’s 
interests?” 

“Not exactly. There is an ulterior motive.” 

Miss Carstairs turned her head and looked directly at him. 
“She told you that?" 

“It might also be described as a desire to protect Mrs. 
Alaten’s interests, in a wider sense: it involves a question 


64 “ QUACK ! ” 

which troubles me—the question as to whether Lady Charn- 
leigh judges correctly as to what is best for Mrs. Alaten.” 

Miss Carstairs turned her head away, and again he saw 
that cynical smile. 

“If you mean that it might be better for Pat to go back to 
Lewis, either you know nothing about him, or I am wasting 
my time.” 

“I know nothing about Mr. Alaten. I had never heard 
of him until Lady Charnleigh mentioned his name.” 

“You should read the fashionable intelligence now that 
you are a practising physician, Mr. Fullar. Dr. Waynford 
always does.” 

“I am not in Dr. Waynford’s class.” 

Miss Carstairs laughed. “I imagine not. You don’t live 
in a transformed stable round a corner because the address 
is a hundred and something A, Harley Street: you don’t nose 
about for patients from whom substantial sums can be ex¬ 
tracted for doing the just-not-too-doubtful thing—writing 
out the convenient fresh prescription for cocaine or heroin 
or veronal because—‘I am really ashamed to send that old 
thing to the chemist again, doctor!’”—she mimicked the 
extremest of drawls. “You don’t make friends with hotel 
managers and clerks, and give them a commission on the 
fees you get when they recommend you to their guests, for 
whose ailments you always prescribe a special diet, which 
incidentally swells the hotel bill. You aren’t willing to do 
anything and everything for money, as long as it isn’t dan¬ 
gerously unlawful—and even if it is, provided the fee is 
high enough. No, I don’t think you are in Dr. Waynford’s 
class, Mr. Fullar. If I did, you would not be sitting here.” 

“You seem to know a good deal about shady West End 
practice.” 


THE CHARNLEIGH MILLIONS 


65 


“I know a great deal about shady West End everything.” 

The implication, in relation to the level, emotionless tone, 
was dreadful. 

Miss Carstairs looked at his reflection in the mirror. “Mr. 
Fullar—if I can convince you that part of what you have 
been told is untrue, would that weigh with you?” 

“Certainly. You have already made me doubtful on one 
point.” 

“What is that?” 

“As to whether your grandfather would really desire to 
annul this settlement.” 

“I assure you that he would not.” 

“Then I do not understand how it is that Lady Charn- 
leigh wishes him to be fully competent. She lays stress 
on it.” 

“Does she?” 

“He must be fully competent—that is to say, it must seem 
so to those present, because they may be called upon after¬ 
wards to testify that he appeared to understand what he was 
doing.” Harding had not paid any particular attention to 
the qualification at the time: now, in the light of Miss 
Carstairs’ ironical tone, there seemed to be something 
sinister in it. 

“The first time, Anna simply told him that he had to 
sign a deed, put a pen between his fingers, and guided 
his hand so that the pen wrote his name. It was patent to 
everyone that he had no notion of what he was doing. The 
solicitors told her that was no good. The second time was 
horrible.” Miss Carstairs shivered. “Dr. Waynford had 
applied electrical heat to the soles of his feet, blistering 
the skin-” 


“What!” cried Harding, jumping up. 



66 


“ QUACK ! ” 


“Sit down, Mr. Fullar. It would be useless to say any¬ 
thing. The nurse protested. She told Anna it was a 
shame. Anna had her out of the house in twenty minutes 
on a trumped-up accusation of negligence.” 

Unwillingly, Harding complied. 

“While grandfather was conscious he did nothing but 
complain of the pain in his feet. Anna kept on at him 
about the deed, which was spread in front of him, but he 
took no notice of what she said. She almost shook him in 
her impatience.” 

Harding debated whether what he had heard was sufficient 
to justify him in refusing off-hand to do what he had been 
asked to do. Regretfully he decided that it was not. Lord 
Charnleigh might have made up his mind to the annulment 
of the deed without his granddaughter’s knowledge: Mrs. 
Alaten might have said something to her mother and father 
which justified Lady Charnleigh’s version of the case. As to 
the blistered feet, the appliances probably were electric foot- 
warmers, and it was possible that the dismissed nurse had 
been responsible for the misapplication of them, and then 
had tried to set herself right in Miss Carstairs’ eyes by 
complaining as to the means used. Such incidents happen. 
He was casting about for words in which to explain his 
difficulty when Miss Carstairs inquired: 

“When you said that Anna had an ulterior motive, was 
there nothing in your mind except the distinction between 
Pat’s material interests and the question of her happiness?” 

Harding replied: “I cannot say that. It occurred to me 
that Lady Charnleigh might have interests of her own in 
mind.” 

“Of what nature?” 

“Financial.” 


THE CHARNLEIGH MILLIONS 


67 


The bitterness of Miss Carstairs’ smile was horrible. 
“You may put that aside, Mr. Fullar. The moment the 
breath leaves my grandfather’s body Anna will have so 
much that a little more or less does not count. I should 
benefit equally if what she wants were done. It does not 
weigh with her any more than it does with me.” 

“But you imply that she has an ulterior motive. Can 
you tell me what it is?” 

Miss Carstairs evaded the question. “Did Anna say 
that Pat had confessed to her father that she was conscious 
of her inability to resist Lewis’ importunities?” 

“Yes.” 

“She is in the house. If I bring her down, will you ask 
her whether that is true? And if she knows nothing of it, 
will that convince you that the story you heard in the 
drawing-room is substantially untrue?” 

Harding reflected. “I am afraid I could only consent to 
that if the interview were to take place in Lady Charnleigh’s 
presence.” 

“In which case it would be useless. Weren’t you intro¬ 
duced to Pat that day at Windbach?” 

“Yes.” 

“What impression did she make on you?” 

“She seemed listless. I did not have much conversation 
with her.” 

“Whereas with me-” 

With a shock of pleasure Harding saw that Miss Carstairs 
was leaning forward with a reminiscent smile. She went on 
—“Do you remember how you characterised my con¬ 
versation?” 

“No.” 

“I was rather a terrible young person at that time— 



68 


“ QUACK ! ” 


fifteen was a precocious age with me—and I remarked that 
the immensely fat lady—wasn’t she the Town Clerk’s wife? 
—must be a sight in her chemise. You replied with a 
gravity that staggered me—‘Lucindy, your conversation is 
scandeelious!’ I am afraid you may want to say it again 
presently.” 

“I thought you did not remember me,” remarked Harding, 
ignoring her last sentence and the sigh which accompanied 
it. He was conscious of a pleasant interior glow. 

Miss Carstairs did not reply at once. She continued to 
look reminiscently into the mirror for a minute or more, 
with the soft smile that exhilarated him so surprisingly 
playing round the corners of her mouth. It faded. Her 
face was serious when she replied: 

“I said that I was not sure whether I recognised in you 
the man I had met. He was not at all the sort of young 
man to be cajoled or bribed into doing something which he 
considered cruel and unjustifiable. I could not be certain, 
at a glance, whether that was still the case.” 

“I hope it is.” 

“I am sure it is. So sure that in the first few minutes 
after you came in I banished from my mind the alternative 
course I had intended to take if a direct appeal failed.” 

“The alternative course?” 

“I dare not even let you know what it was.” 

Their eyes challenged in the mirror. Miss Carstairs 
turned hers away. 

“I was afraid you would take that view in regard to my 
suggestion that you should see Pat,” she remarked. “I 
don’t know what I can do to convince you except explain 
Anna’s real motive.” Her tone was expressionless, but he 
divined that for some reason she was unwilling to enlighten 


THE CHARNLEIGH MILLIONS 


69 


him. He was again debating whether he would be justified 
in acting upon what she had already said, when he happened 
to notice her face in the mirror. Relatively bloodless be¬ 
fore, it was absolutely bloodless now. She was visibly 
gathering her forces for an effort. Horrified at the idea 
that he was inflicting something like torture upon her, he 
was on the point of saying that he would accept what she 
had told him as sufficient, when she spoke. The first words 
froze him. 

“Lewis was Anna’s lover for years. The marriage with 
Pat was a device to extort money from grandfather. His 
life-principle has been not to part with money as long as he 
could put off doing so, and Anna could never obtain more 
than a thousand pounds at a time. Lewis became impatient, 
and threatened to break with her. She hit on the scheme 
of the marriage and a settlement. The original idea was a 
quarter of a million in cash to Pat, which would have been 
the same thing as to Lewis, because Pat has no idea of money 
except as to spending what she has in her bag. That failed. 
Nothing would induce grandfather to pay out the money. 
He would not give more than ten thousand in cash, and the 
same sum yearly until his death. Then the balance becomes 
payable. Anna managed to induce Lewis to accept this, and 
Pat and Lewis were married. The plan went astray again. 
Pat became violently enamoured of Lewis, and he was 
content for a time with her. Anna had assumed that her 
former relations with him would be continued-” 

Harding could not control an impulse to betray disgust. 
He had turned his head away after her first sentence, and 
supposed that she was not looking at his reflection; now 
she observed cynically: “Say Lucindy.” 

“Don’t.” 



70 


“ QUACK ! ” 


“No. We were an innocent boy and girl then. I mean 
that I was innocent, and although you probably knew much 
more than I did about such things, neither of us would have 
credited this.” 

“It is not necessary to go on.” 

“You may as well hear the whole of the story now. Lewis 
grew tired of Pat following him about like a dog. He began 
to bully her. Ultimately he beat her. Pat was frightened, 
and came bleating to Anna. Anna persuaded her not to go 
back. Lewis came here blustering, and Anna met him with 
an ultimatum—either he must be to her what he had been, 
or she would persuade grandfather to annul the settlement. 
Lewis defied her, and initiated proceedings to recover Pat. 
Anna tried to carry out her threat in regard to the settle¬ 
ment, and met with a positive refusal. Grandfather said that 
she had brought about the marriage, and had induced him 
to make the settlement: he would not go back on it. Anna 
went on worrying him, because she knew that if the situa¬ 
tion were prolonged, Pat would inevitably go back to Lewis 
of her own accord. She forgets quickly: she has already 
forgotten his beating her. Then grandfather had the haem¬ 
orrhage, and Anna was in a dilemma. Either he must be 
brought back to life sufficiently to annul the settlement, or 
it would be good-bye to Lewis for ever. Therefore, Dr. 
Waynford, Dr. Parrinson, Sir Hugo Dalbent, Mr. Myles 
Fiske, Sir Lawford Dunn, and Mr. Harding Fullar.” 

The intonation with which she spoke his name was like 
the flick of a red-hot whip. He got up, and looked absent- 
mindedly at the bookshelves beside the mirror, trying to 
frame the assurance he wanted to give her. In addition to 
the standard medical books there were a number of students’ 
text-books. He said without thinking: 


THE CHARNLEIGH MILLIONS 


71 


“If you have read all these, you must know something 
about medicine.” 

“I read for my replied Miss Carstairs indiffer¬ 

ently, “but I had a breakdown, so I went no further.” 

This explained much. Harding felt suddenly light¬ 
hearted. 

His eye fell on the books tucked into niches in the 
mantel. Plotinus. Marcus Aurelius. St. Augustine. Novalis. 
Emerson. Maeterlinck. William James. . . . 

These books were handy when one sat where one usually 
does sit when alone—by the hearth. 

“You read philosophy?” 

“I try to hold on to all the good I can.” 

Her humility went to Harding’s heart like a straight-sped 
shaft. He knew of the hideous shapes with which this girl 
had been forced to live; he glimpsed a struggle to get 
away from them in her privacy, especially in the privacy 
of her mind. Something stirred in him which had lain 
dormant since his Cambridge days. 

Miss Carstairs turned her head and called over her 
shoulder: 

“You may as well come straight down, Anna. I have 
said all I have to say to Mr. Fullar.” 

So that was why she had watched the stairs. 

Lady Charnleigh entered the room. She glanced at Miss 
Carstairs and then at Harding. 

“I hope you have not forgotten that I am anxiously 
awaiting your decision, Mr. Fullar.” 

“So far from that,” replied Harding deliberately, “I 
have thought of a way to satisfy you.” 

Miss Carstairs turned her head sharply and looked at him. 

“I am so glad,” purred Lady Charnleigh: but she was 


72 “ QUACK ! ” 

not altogether deceived; if she had been, her manner would 
have been triumphant.—“Then it can be done?” 

“I think so. I cannot be certain unless I try.”—Miss 
Carstairs turned her face away: it was bloodless again.— 
“But you may be certain of this, Lady Charnleigh—if I 
do not do it, no one else can.” 

It was not said boastfully. Miss Carstairs glanced at him 
for a second. 

“I believe you. Waynford says the same thing. Well, 
Mr. Fullar, I am in your hands. Name your fee, and you 
shall have it.” 

“May I ask a question first?—As I understand, your 
object is solely to save Mrs. Alaten from lifelong misery 
with her husband?” 

“Exactly.” 

“You do not attach any importance to the money payable 
under the settlement, large sum as it possibly is?” 

“None whatever.” 

“Miss Carstairs assured me that was so.”—Lady Charn¬ 
leigh looked at the top of her step-granddaughter’s head in 
surprise.—“I also understand that Mr. Alaten is not con¬ 
cerned to recover his wife except for the purpose of obtain¬ 
ing the money.” 

“Quite so, Mr. Fullar. But what has this to do with-” 

“I am about to explain. I regret to say that in my 
opinion Lord Charnleigh will not live longer than a few 
days at most.” 

“Which only makes it more important not to waste 
time.” 

“Therefore, within say a week, the balance due under the 
settlement will become payable to Mrs. Alaten.” 

“Yes, but-■” 


THE CHARNLEIGH MILLIONS 


73 


“Let her make over the money to her husband, and then 
he will trouble her no more.” 

“Oh, bravo!” said Miss Carstairs under her breath. 

For a moment Lady Charnleigh looked as if she were 
going to swear. She controlled her rage. Pantherlike she 
moved to the girl’s side and laid a hand on her shoulder. 

“You have made friends with this man, Katrine—oh, 
yes, you have—I sense it—and you have put him off. Why 
do you persist in opposing me?” 

“You know why, Anna.” 

“But it will be largely for your benefit.” 

Miss Carstairs smiled cynically, but not quite so cynically 
as before: a just-perceptible change had taken place in her 
manner. 

“I wish I could make you realise that I am acting in your 
interests as well as for Pat’s sake.” 

“Please leave me out of your calculations for the future.” 

“I can do no more,” sighed Lady Charnleigh. 

“Yes, you can. Leave my grandfather to die in peace.” 

Harding, watching, saw a swift change in Lady Charn- 
leigh’s expression. It was like a flash of dark lightning 
from within, rendering half-visible, for the space of some 
small fraction of a second, black depths unfathomable. It 
passed as quickly as it came. The phenomenon was not 
pleasant to witness. 

“You think me heartless? I will prove that I am not. 
You shall yourself explain to your grandfather what is 
required. I will not say a word. And you shall have the 
whole sum—I will bind myself in writing here and now 
to hand over to you a quarter of a million out of the 
residue. Mr. Fullar can witness it.” 

Miss Carstairs seemed to Harding to be thinking this over. 


74 


“ QUACK ! ” 


“And Mr. Fullar,” she inquired in her indifferent way— 
“doesn’t he get anything but his ordinary fee?” 

“Certainly.” There was triumph now in Lady Charn- 
leigh’s manner. How many times in her strenuous life had 
she snatched victory at a last moment!—“Mr. Fullar— 
Waynford told me that he offered you a thousand, and you 
turned up your nose. You shall have two.” 

Harding looked at Miss Carstairs. He made no reply to 
Lady Charnleigh’s offer. 

“Isn’t it enough? Three, then.” 

Miss Carstairs lifted her head—she had been gazing at 
the floor—and her eyes met Harding’s in a look that was 
like the crossing of swords. 

“Come! What do you say?”—Lady Charnleigh was back 
in the throes of uncertainty. 

The other two took no notice of her. In a few seconds 
Miss Carstairs turned her head away again and smiled into 
the mirror, very slightly—a contented dimpling of the 
corners of the mouth. 

“Good-night, Miss Carstairs,” said Harding, and, with 
the slightest of bows to Lady Charnleigh, moved towards 
the door. 

Lady Charnleigh tried to stop him. “Mr. Fullar—this 
is absurd. Why can’t we arrange ...” 

He was in the hall. The defeated harridan directed an 
angry look at her step-granddaughter. Miss Carstairs was 
still smiling into the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed, her 
eyes shone like satin. 


CHAPTER IV 


Virgin Love 


“Dear Mr. Fullar, 

“I have reason to believe that you have not received 
a fee for attending my grandfather, nor asked for any. Will 
you accept the enclosed cheque? It by no means discharges 
my indebtedness to you, but that is because the greater 
part of my debt cannot be paid in money. If the amount 
is not right, please let me know. 

“I am staying with my aunts, Alice and Harriet Carstairs. 
They go out a good deal, but I don’t find myself sociably 
disposed at present, except that I am glad when a friend 
looks me up on one of their bridge-club evenings—Tuesdays 
and Fridays—which otherwise I spend by myself, seeking 
distraction among the philosophers. 

“Sincerely yours, 

“Katrine Carstairs,.” 

“How good of you to come and look me up.” 

“No, it isn’t. I wanted to come.” 

Miss Carstairs looked down. She had not troubled to 
rise when Harding was announced, had merely turned her 
head with a smile. 

Now she was looking down. 

“And I wanted you to come.” The voice was low, but 
the words distinct. 

Harding could hardly believe . . . 

She looked up. “Am I shameless?—No, not so fast!” 

75 


76 


“QUACK!” 


She threw out a hand laughingly as he bent towards her. 
“A girl who has been badly brought up does herself the 
honour to desire your better acquaintance.” 

“Is that all?” 

“That is all.” The tone was final, but a low-voiced 
addition sent the blood surging into his head—“at present.” 
Miss Carstairs laughed mischievously. “You look as if 
you would like to prescribe for me.” 

“So I should.” 

“Is there a cure for femininity?” 

“I haven’t the least desire to cure you of it. I was 
alluding to the fact that you are not so strong as you ought 
to be.” 

“Am I as scraggy as that?” She laughed again, divining 
that he was with difficulty refraining from taking her into his 
arms.—“Now let us be sensible. We are twentieth-century 
people, and we can be sensible over it. How can we 
conveniently get to know each other better?” 

“Let me treat you for asthenia.” 

“Are you serious? It isn’t, you know.” 

“I am perfectly serious.” 

“What is the treatment—pills or a mixture to be swal¬ 
lowed three times a day after meals? Quinine and iron, 
or . . .” 

“None of them. Just something to put into your food. 
Do you eat porridge at breakfast?” 

“No, bread and milk.” 

“You can put it into that. It is tasteless.” 

“How clever you must be! Won’t you tell me what it 
is?” 

“Certainly not.” 

“But you ought to. I am a fellow-medico, almost.” 


VIRGIN LOVE 


77 


“In this case you will be the patient.” 

“I will be a very patient patient if you will tell me what 
it is I am going to imbibe with my bread and milk.” 

“That would be a bad beginning—for me to yield against 
my better wisdom.” 

“Is your wisdom the better?” 

“Assuredly, for the purpose of the case, because I am to 
treat you.” 

“Will you tell me when I am cured? I shall be cured, 
of course, if you take me in hand.” 

“Very well.” 

“Mind—I shall hold you to that. I suppose it will be 
necessary for you to come and see me occasionally—say 
once a week?” 

“Two evenings a week would be better.” 

Miss Carstairs laughed softly. “I must do as I am told. 
Now, I ought to contribute a suggestion. Do you ride?” 
“No.” 

“You should. It would”—she was going to say “take the 
stoop out of your shoulders,” but broke off to observe 
maliciously: “You look much smarter than the last time I 
saw you. You have a most eloquently shiny collar on—and 
a new tie—is it a new suit, too?” 

“I don’t care who knows.” 

“Who knows what?” 

“Why I put them on.” 

Miss Carstairs laughed again, settling herself cosily into 
her chair.—“Won’t you learn to ride?” 

“Oh, I can ride all right. Only, I must buy a horse.” 

“You could hire.” 

“No, I’ll buy.” 

“Then we will buy him together. I really do know some- 


78 


“ QUACK ! ” 


thing about horses—much more than I do about medicine.” 

She had been speaking of her father and a letter she had 
received from him inviting her to join him and her step¬ 
mother at Cannes. “Poor daddy! He saunters through 
life, beautifully dressed, with his hat a little on one side, 
mildly perplexed as to how other fellows contrive to get 
hold of ‘the stuff,’ as he calls it, in the way they do—or 
seem to him to do. For a number of years after mother 
died—he married again almost immediately—that was when 
grandfather took me—he used to turn up in Park Lane or 
at Baildon with some scheme which he wanted grandfather 
to finance. It was impossible to make him understand what 
kind of financial business grandfather did.” 

“I don’t understand that, either,” remarked Harding. 
“Someone said, while you were at Windbach, that your 
grandfather had not made his money out of merchant bank¬ 
ing, but by financing company promoters. I have no clear 
idea of what is meant by either.” 

Katrine explained that merchant bankers pay for goods 
bought in Europe by merchants abroad, mostly in the Far 
East, and sell through brokers the produce shipped by them 
to Europe. “That was the business of Hatz, Groost & Co. 
until grandfather grew up. He had an instinct for the other 
kind of finance. He was fond of telling the story of his 
first essay, when he was ten years old. Another boy said 
that he wanted a pennyworth of toffee but would have no 
money until Saturday. Grandfather had a penny. He 
said: ‘I will lend you a penny until Saturday if you will 
give me half the toffee.’ The other boy agreed. They went 
to a shop, bought the toffee, and divided it. Grandfather 
sold his half to another boy for a halfpenny. Two days 
later he got his penny back.” 


VIRGIN LOVE 


79 


“Fifty per cent, interest for two days,” commented Hard¬ 
ing. “No wonder he became a multi-millionaire.” 

“The percentage had hardly anything to do with it,” ex¬ 
plained Miss Carstairs, “from grandfather’s point of view.” 

Harding knitted his brows. “You don’t mean that he 
would have regarded it as an equally good transaction if the 
profit had been one per cent.?” 

“Not equally good, but still good. The point is that he 
got it in cash, and his money back quickly. That was his 
sine qua non in finance. When people came to him with 
glowing schemes, as father did with a plan for making 
compressed fuel out of peat, he always replied: ‘Lock-ups 
don’t interest me.’ ” 

“But why should people borrow money, if they have to 
pay it back quickly and something with it—I mean business 
people?” 

“Suppose you had a business in which you used large 
quantities of coal, and found you could make a saving by 
buying a colliery, the price of which was a hundred thou¬ 
sand pounds cash. Being in business, you have not a 
hundred thousand pounds at disposal; your capital is in 
buildings, machinery, goods, and debts owing to you. You 
go to a financial house, and arrange with them to lend you 
the money. You buy the colliery, and form a company, in 
which you take all the shares except a hundred thousand 
pounds of debentures, which you guarantee as to principal 
and interest. The financial house, perhaps helped by your 
bankers and their own, find purchasers for the debentures, 
and thereby recoup themselves for the loan. You only have 
to pay them a commission—a few thousand pounds. Result, 
you become the titular owner, and entitled to the profits, 
of a property which has cost you next to nothing, and of 


80 


“ QUACK ! ” 


which you may become the real owner by providing for a 
sinking fund out of the profits. It pays for itself.” 

“Then, the financier merely facilitates the transaction?” 

“Exactly.” 

Harding took a plunge which he had been meditating. 
“Suppose it had been possible for me to restore your grand¬ 
father to health, so that he might conceivably have carried 
on for several years more, would you say that in the inter¬ 
ests of the community I ought to have done it?” 

“I don’t know about the interests of the community, but 
on my own account I should have begged you not to do it. 
There could be nothing more in life for him but shame and 
weariness and the desire to be out of it.” 

“No. But from the other point of view—would the 
community have gained if his life had been prolonged?” 

“I don’t think so, except that as long as he kept his hold 
on the money-bags Anna could not indulge her vicious pro¬ 
pensities as she now will. Otherwise, grandfather was past 
rendering any kind of real service. He had done very little 
for years. He became so rich that perforce he accumulated 
investments, because he could not possibly use all his 
capital, and the investments paid him so well that he 
ceased to use it at all in the old way.” 

“Then should I have been justified, from the moral point 
of view, in prolonging his life?” 

“You would have been bound to do so, would you not?” 

“On the basis of medical knowledge as it exists, yes. 
But suppose I had known of a way to do it which is out¬ 
side medical knowledge?” 

“By performing a miracle?” 

“If you like. Ought I to have performed the miracle, 
on public grounds?” 


VIRGIN LOVE 


81 


“I don’t see why you should.” 

“I heard a story about you the other day, Mr. Fullar. 
Is it true that at a consultation the bigwigs settled the 
diagnosis to their entire satisfaction, and were about to 
break up when it occurred to Sir Davis Garstin to ask what 
you thought: and that you replied simply: ‘I don’t know.’ 
The sequel proving that no one could have known, because 
the disease had never been known to occur in Europe 
before?” 

“That is not correct. Garstin and Morwell and Sande- 
mann were not satisfied with their diagnosis—they only 
concluded that it was probably a case of myxcedema. It did 
not occur to any of us that it could be encephalitis 
lethargica, because the patient had never been in the tropics. 
We were not told that the patient had recently been in the 
South of France, and that the journey back had been made 
by sea, on a steamer which had come from the East.” 

“I like the story, all the same.” 

“There is nothing in it as far as I am concerned. I merely 
happened to remember one of my father’s sayings—‘The 
time to be sure is when you have accounted for all the 
symptoms.’ ” 

Miss Carstairs nodded approvingly. 


“Tell me about your house.” 

“When are you coming to see it?” 

“Not yet.”—The “yet” set his pulses racing. Perhaps it 
was meant to: perhaps not. “Who lives in it besides your¬ 
self—a housekeeper?” 

“A housekeeper—one Mrs. Snaith, a worthy woman and 


82 


“ QUACK ! ” 


an excellent cook. She comes out strong when the girls are 
up or I have a man or two to dinner. When I am alone she 
has no ideas beyond joint and boiled potatoes and greens.” 

“Poor man!” 

“It suffices. Florrie—house-parlourmaid, rather plain 
but reliable. Dorothy—my secretary-” 

“Quite a staff.” 

“And her little girl.” 

“Her little girl?” 

“Yes.” 

“Is she married, then?” 

“I don’t really know,” replied Harding meditatively. “I 
think not.” 

“Well, but-” 

“The father of the child is in gaol.” 

“Harding!”—Miss Carstairs was betrayed into exclama¬ 
tion. 

“Yes, Katrine.” 

They were Harding and Katrine to each other now. 

“How did you come to engage her?” 

He related the story—as much as he could of it. “The 
reason I am inclined to think she is not married is that 
neither she nor Mrs. Snaith used the word, and she said, 
when she offered me a reference to the firm she was with, 
would I please write of her as Miss Weatherby, because 
she still went by her maiden name at the office. She had 
been there eight years, so it may be the case that she is 
married, but did not change her name in business—I believe 
some firms object to it. But I fancy not—that Weatherby 
is her legal name.” 

Katrine’s comment, and the extra levelness of tone with 
which it was uttered, surprised him. 




VIRGIN LOVE 


83 


“If I ever do come to the house, please spare me a 
meeting with your Dorothy.” 

“She isn’t my Dorothy,” laughed Harding. “She is my 
secretary.” 

“Is that all?” 

Harding rose deliberately and put a finger on Katrine’s 
forehead. 

“Young woman,” he said in a voice that made her long 
to throw herself into his arms, “I remember your telling me 
that you try to hold on to all the good you can. Please 
continue.” 

Unseen by him, she brushed her lips against his sleeve. 

“What are you reading?” 

Miss Carstairs lifted the book from her lap and showed 
him the title. 

“Wells? What do you think of him?” 

“An intellectual counter-jumper.” 

“But he can jump.” 

In those days, the mention of the name of either of the 
two men in England who were making people think usually 
led to a discussion; in less than two minutes the name of the 
other would crop up, and then there was a battle. In this 
instance the fight was postponed by Miss Carstairs re¬ 
marking: “I have not been reading tonight. I was wonder¬ 
ing what I should do with my money when I get it.” 

“Your money?” Harding’s tone was uninterested. 

She threw him one of her challenging glances. “Did you 
not hear Anna say that night that if I withdrew my opposi¬ 
tion I should have three-quarters of a million instead of the 
five hundred thousand grandfather left me?” 

“Oh, yes, I think I did.” 


84 


“ QUACK!” 


She scrutinized his face. He was staring into the fire 
as if he were thinking of something else. He woke up. 

“No, she didn’t say that. She offered to let you have the 
quarter of a million which would have fallen into the 
estate if the settlement had been annulled; but, as far as I 
remember, she did not mention the amount bequeathed to 
you.” 

“It was in the newspapers.” 

“Was it? I didn’t look. Ought I to have done?” 

That disarmed Miss Carstairs: she had to keep back a 
smile. “Yes, I think perhaps you ought, if you were 
sufficiently interested.” 

“It never occurred to me. Why need you do anything 
about it? Isn’t it invested?” 

“Of course it is. I meant the income. I could hardly 
spend it all even if I tried, which I have no inclination to 
do; and what is the use of allowing it to accumulate?” 

“It would be of service to industry.” 

“I want to think of something I can do with part of it 
that will benefit the community and not yield a dividend.” 

Harding yielded to an impulse. “Start an Infant Welfare 
Centre,” he flung out. 

“A creche? Why? So that you may experiment on the 
babies?” 

“No—yes, partly, in the sense that I would do my best to 
make them strong and healthy. I wouldn’t hurt them. But 
I mean more than a creche—a really modern, properly 
organised centre for the promotion of the welfare of the 
children in a working-class district. Limesea. One is badly 
needed there ...” 

She had pulled the string, and the figure worked. At first 
she had a feeling of disappointment. Almost countless were 


VIRGIN LOVE 


85 


the people who had besieged her ears in the endeavour to 
impress upon her the need of this, that, and the other for 
children, growing girls, young women, old women, old men, 
the halt, the maimed, and the blind: because, although she 
had never disposed of funds of her own, her grandfather had 
not been averse to having his name in a charity list from 
time to time, and was acute enough to provide substantial 
figures to follow it. The people with schemes knew this, 
and thought it might be easier to interest him through her 
than directly. Was Mr. Harding Fullar, for all his great 
reputation as a scientist, also a crank? 

He sounded like it. She was getting a tremendous dose of 
pure milk—or if that were unobtainable then it must be 
sterilised—lime-water, cream, oatmeal, galvanised iron and 
enamel baths, white Windsor soap, towels, starch powder, 
light warm clothing, boracic acid, cradles and cots, bed¬ 
clothes, fresh air, perambulators, bars for windows, fire¬ 
guards, pushcarts, dentition, new-laid eggs, fresh meat and 
vegetables, stewed apples, gruel, pure margarine, milk 
puddings and simple home remedies for the minor ailments 
that the human young are prone to. 

But, before he had done, something came through this 
mass of information, most of which she knew already. 
Mr. Fullar was no weak sentimentalist who wanted to help 
the dear children because it was so very dreadful, don’t 
you know. He was an architect, and for his building he 
needed healthy, sane-minded, capable and energetic men 
and women. Here was the authentic fire, the instinct to 
create, the forward leap of the spirit into chaos. 

But what was the object of the building—what purpose 
was it intended to subserve? 

He misunderstood her question. The immediate object 


86 


“ QUACK ! ” 


was to elevate the doctor into a kind of family guardian. 

He drew a picture of a general practitioner’s day. “He 
economizes his time as well as he can, but most of it is 
necessarily spent in getting from one house to another. If 
he has seen the patient before, he makes sure that nothing 
untoward is happening and then hurries off again. When 
he has to diagnose, he listens with half an ear to what he 
is told, takes the pulse and the temperature, observes any 
superficial symptoms, writes a prescription, and gives gen¬ 
eral instructions about keeping the patient in bed and so on. 
That is all a g.p. has time for: it is all his patients expect of 
him, as a rule. If he made a thorough examination in every 
fresh case, inquired into the history, and tried to ensure 
precautions being taken against possible developments, the 
patients and their friends would not like it. They would be 
frightened, and as in most cases nothing serious would 
eventuate, they would think the conscientious one an alarm¬ 
ist, and drop him. The public are more to blame than the 
profession for the slovenly, ineffective way in which the 
health problem is dealt with. They persist in looking on 
the doctor as a kind of magician, who can, by a set of 
tricks, relieve them of their physical troubles as they arise, 
but with whom, in the meantime, it is not necessary for 
them to have any relations.” 

The first step, then, was to educate the public. The main 
function of the medical profession ought to be preventive. 
The work done at the Welfare Centres would inculcate this 
idea. The children, growing up under medical guardian¬ 
ship, would retain the habit of seeing the doctor periodically, 
and would see that their children did so in turn. A begin¬ 
ning had already been made in regard to dentistry: it was 
becoming quite a common practice for parents to send 


VIRGIN LOVE 


87 


their children to have their teeth seen to twice a year; they 
must be induced to do the same as to their general health. 
Eventually, it would be made compulsory. The doctor 
would keep records of his observations, any treatment pre¬ 
scribed, and the results. These records would be passed on 
by one doctor to another as required, and in the second 
generation would be invaluable. The medical guardian 
would know what to look out for. In the third generation 
it might be hoped that many predispositions now trans¬ 
mitted through ignorance and carelessness would be eradi¬ 
cated. The doctor would have become the tutelar authority 
to a number of families. His advice would be sought in 
regard to choice of school, special training, occupation, 
marriage, etc. The intelligent cooperation of the public 
in the precautions necessary to prevent epidemics would 
be secured: endemic diseases would be almost stamped out. 

Miss Carstairs put her question again, in a different form. 

“Do you believe there is a purpose in the universe?” 

Harding looked blank. “Oh—you mean in the Victorian 
sense. No—I suppose I must say I don’t. I have never 
thought about it, particularly. I assumed without inquiry, 
as a boy, that Huxley and Tyndall were right in concluding 
that there was no evidence of it.” 

“Then how can we know what types of men and women 
it is desirable to produce?” 

Harding dilated on the results of intelligent selection in 
the breeding of animals. 

“But we know what we want. We aim at speed and 
staying-power in race horses, strength in dray horses, 
because those are the qualities required. But you say—and 
I agree with you there—that we don’t know what men are 
for. How, then, can intelligent selection operate?” 


88 “ QUACK ! ” 

“Either you are going beyond me, or that is a verbal 
juggle.” 

Miss Carstairs picked up the glove, nothing loth. 

When he had gone, she sat on for a long time, thinking 
—but not as to what she should do with her money. 

“I have forgotten the coffee. Will you ring the bell?” 

The coffee-service was old Spode, and there was thick 
cream: but the coffee itself was weak and tasteless. Hard¬ 
ing, who was wondering whether he might try his luck 
again—he had done so several times and been put off—did 
not notice it. 

Katrine became absent-minded too. “We must have 
better coffee than this.” 

She was startled when she realised that she had spoken 
her thought aloud, and the next moment found her praying 
that Harding had not heard, or, if he had, that he would not 
look at her. Katrine the unblushing was a rich crimson. 

Harding merely thought that she was referring to her 
aunt’s housekeeping. 

At six o’clock one evening, Dorothy brought in the index- 
card of still another patient. 

Skelmerdale , W. D. — M. 56. Ent. 27. Int. abc. Op. Gast. 
34. App. 41. Op. Chron. Phle. 

“Is this the last, Dorothy?” 

“Florrie said there was a lady waiting. I don’t know 
her name. Shall I find out?” 

“Don’t trouble.” Harding rang the bell for Mr. Skel¬ 
merdale to be shown in, and Dorothy disappeared to her 
own quarters. 

There was nothing to be done for Mr. Skelmerdale. He 


VIRGIN LOVE 


89 


was already patched up as far as he could be. Harding 
listened patiently to his manifold repetitions of his desire 
to become “perfectly well”—more patiently, perhaps, than 
he would have done if Dorothy had seen the lady in the 
waiting-room and told him who she was. 

“Miss Carstairs.” Florrie closed the consulting-room 
door. 

Katrine paused a yard from it. Her soft black cloak with 
wide collar and deep cuffs of fur, and the black plumed 
hat, set off rosy cheeks, eyes that were satiny-bright, and 
lips naturally red. Her figure had developed. 

Harding was standing on the hearthrug, at the further 
end of the room from the door. He did not come forward 
to greet her. 

“What brings you into the den of horrors?” 

“My doctor hasn’t called on me for a fortnight.” 

“You have seen him every morning. And you don’t 
need any more doctoring.” 

“I was afraid I might. Then—shall I do now?” 

“Do for what?” 

“Well—you came and looked me over, and said I was 
too scraggy, but you thought you could put it right-” 

Harding made the jump of his life, and their faces met 
in a blind fumble. Katrine’s cheeks seemed hard, tasted of 
the keen wind outside. Harding tried to find her lips. 

They were cold and dry. She accepted his kiss without 
returning it. 

They parted, breathless. Katrine took a deep inspiration, 
and put her face on his breast. 

“I knew I didn’t need doctoring,” she whispered between 
laughter and tears, “but also I knew I wanted the doctor. 
I have been struggling to utter from one horse to another for 


90 


“ QUACK ! ” 


a week past, and I have discovered that one can’t-” 

She got no further. The second attempt was more 
successful. But she soon became breathless—kissing is an 
art that has to be learnt. 

“Please—Harry.” 

He released her. She sat down, and looked at him 
roguishly. 

“Now you have to tell.” 

“Tell what?” 

“What the medicine was.” 

He told her—the truth. She listened, cried out when he 
had done: 

“Harry! It is against the rules.” 

“Not at all. I daren’t put Fullamin-plus into the hands 
of every g.p. It was bad enough with Fullamin, at first. 
Don’t you recollect the case I told you of—when there was 
an inquest, and it came out that a fool of a fellow had given 
a dying man ten grains? Ten grains of Fullamin-plus 
might kill an elephant. I must find safeguards before I 
make it known.” 

She considered this. “You know best.” 

“That isn’t all I have to tell you. Do you remember my 
asking whether you thought it would have been my duty to 
restore your grandfather to health, if I could have done so 
by a means of my own?” 

She stared at him, wide-eyed. “Would this treatment 
have restored him?” 

“No. It is not safe to apply it, in such cases, until the 
local condition has cleared up. But you said that you did 
not think it would have been incumbent on me to restore 
him to health.” 

“Not on public grounds. That was the way you put it.” 



VIRGIN LOVE 


91 


“Yes. I find it exceedingly difficult to apply the same 
test in selecting the subjects for the trial treatments.” 

She paled. “Do you apply it?” 

“I made up my mind to do so for a period of ten years.” 
He explained the object and scope of the experiment. 
Katrine listened with eyes fixed on his face. Tiny lines 
appeared between her eyebrows. When he had finished, 
she turned her eyes away, and did not speak. 

“There has only been one case so far in which I came to 
the conclusion that on eugenic grounds I ought not to take 
action—Lily’s.” 

Katrine knew Dorothy and Lily now. 

“Harry, how horrible.” 

“Well, you see ...” 

“You don’t feel satisfied that you did right? She is a 
little devil.” 

“Do you think I did right?” 

“Tell me all over again.” 

It was a queer way of lovemaking—but then, one of the 
charms of lovemaking is that every pair of lovers find their 
own way. 

Katrine considered the case very carefully indeed. She 
asked a considerable number of questions, put points and 
argued them—both ways—and generally behaved like a 
model consultant. 

“No, I think that from your point of view you did 
wrong,” was her gravely-delivered verdict. 

“I ought to have let her go?” 

“Don’t say that. It sounds so awful.” 

“But that is what it amounts to. We have to face it.” 

“We?” 

“Yes. I want you to help me to decide.” 


92 


“ QUACK ! ” 


“To decide whether you should give the treatment?” 

“Yes—not from the medical point of view, of course. I 
will explain to you what the chances are. Then the ques¬ 
tion will be, what is the person’s record, and will it benefit 
the community to extend the life? It is in that regard 
I want your help.” 

Katrine’s eyes fell. She did not speak for several 
minutes. 

“I shall do whatever you want. But won’t it be contrary 
to medical etiquette?” 

“I can tell the patients that I wish to consult you. You 
are partly qualified.” 

“Very well.—Now I want to see Dorothy.” 

“What for?” 

She looked at him with amusement. “Woman’s busi¬ 
ness.” She became grave as she spoke. 

“All right. I’ll ring.” 

“No—please. I must go to her. Where is she likely to 
be?” 

“In the sitting-room she and Mrs. Snaith use. It’s at 
the back. I’ll come with you.” 

“No, I will go alone. I shall find her.” 

She turned at the door to waft him a kiss on a glance 
starry with happiness, and vanished. 


CHAPTER V 


Damwily 

They were sitting by the drawing-room fire after dinner, 
both reading, as even the most affectionate husbands and 
wives begin to do when their first quarrel has been made 
up and forgotten. Harding laid down the Monatschrift 
Ueber Verschauungskrankheiten and looked at his wife. 
Nice husbands sometimes do. 

“Rina- 

He spoke in his ordinary tone. Katrine did not hear. 
She was deep in her book, oblivious even of the fact that she 
had a husband. The nicest of wives sometimes is. 

Harding slipped quietly on to the rug at her feet and put 
his head against her side. Mechanically she laid a hand on 
it. She did not ruffle his hair; nice wives never do—know¬ 
ing how much a man dislikes it. He put up his hand, and, 
very gently, began to stroke hers. 

“Rina-” 

The word was pitched lower this time, and uttered only 
just loudly enough to be heard. 

“Yes, dear ...” 

Stroke—stroke—stroke- 

“You were engaged once before, weren’t you?” 

“Yes, dear.” 

“You were very much in love with him, weren’t you?” 

“Yes, dear.” 

“He was your second cousin, wasn’t he?” 

“Yes, dear.” 


93 





94 “ QUACK ! ” 

“You broke it off because you found out he was a rotter, 
didn’t you?” 

“Ye—n-” Katrine started. “What have I been 

saying?”—Harding had spoilt the experiment by putting 
a question in a form that suggested a wrong answer. He 
felt that she was trembling.—“What have I been saying? 
You were asking me questions, weren’t you?” 

“Yes. And you were answering—truthfully.” 

Katrine frowned. She began to remember. 

“I don’t think that was fair. I would have answered 
your questions just the same if you had put them to me in 
the ordinary way. You tricked me with one of your clever 
dodges, and I don’t like it.” 

Harding got up and sat on the arm of her chair. He put 
his arm round her. She remained rigid, unresponsive. 

“Darling—none of us can be truthful about some things. 
And in this particular case it was necessary that I should 
get to know at least one fact.” 

“What fact?”—coldly. 

“That you were very much in love. No doubt, if I had 
asked you in the ordinary way, you would have admitted 
that you had been engaged before, but you would probably 
have laughed it off as a boy and girl affair. Wouldn’t you?” 

Katrine reflected. “I might,” she admitted, adding 
resentfully: “I never asked you any questions.” 

“Well, you can. I’ll make a bargain with you. We will 
constitute ourselves forthwith a Commission of Inquiry. 
I will lay bare the whole of my hideous past-” 

“The whole of it?” 

“Everything.” 

“You won’t skip—slur over?” 

“Not a thing. It shall be quite French—unbowdlerised. 




DAMWILY 


95 


Then you shall relate the story of your previous engage¬ 
ment. I want to know for a reason.” 

“Very well. But what was that trick you played on me? 
How is it done?” 

“In the semi-scientific jargon of psychology, which is 
a semi-science, it is a direct appeal to the subconscious 
intelligence. Success depends on pitching your voice right, 
and, of course, on taking your subject in the mental con¬ 
dition popularly known as absent-mindedness.” 

“I wish you weren’t so damwily.” 

“Rubbish. Now for my ’orrible past.—The only girl I 
had relations with until I met a certain carrotty darling . . .” 

“Go on with your story.” 

“ . . . had golden hair and tobacconisted in K. P. The 
gold was peroxide. I knew that, having been a swot at 
Stinks from a tender age; but I rather liked it. For a week 
or two our flirtation was carried on over the counter and 
punctuated by the purchase and sale of cigarettes and the 
ting of the National Cash Register. Then, greatly daring, I 
invited her to come on the river of a Sunday. We went to a 
pub to get summat t’ eat. It took the pub-people quite a 
while to get it ready, and the lady drank a little gin-and- 
bitters to parss the time—two little gins-and-bitterses, if I 
remember correctly. Also beer with our food. Also a 
creme-de-menthe after—mayhap two. No, I think one.” 

“Does it matter?” 

“Very much. Because, you see, going back I kissed her 
under some willows, and her lips tasted creme-de-menthy, 
and her breath-” 

“Don’t be Lucindyish.” 

“But it was Lucindyish, and you said I must tell the 
truth.—She lured me into making love ...” 



96 


“ QUACK ! ” 


“I don’t wish to hear any more.” 

“We parted that night and I never saw her again.” 

“Is that all?” 

“All.” 

“I mean—is that the only time-” 

“I fell in love almost immediately afterwards-” 

“Ah.” Katrine just breathed it. 

“With an elusive little lady named Vitamina B, and-” 

“You cheat!” She rumpled his hair this time, and he 
retaliated. There was an interlude, terminated by a resolu¬ 
tion passed con amore. 

“Now you tell.” 

“Mine would be nearly as Lucindyish as yours to some 
people, only we’re both medical and understand. What a 
blessing that is! I never thought of it before-” 

“Don’t begin by digressing.” 

“I think I told you once that although I was precocious 
up to my sixteenth year, after that I went backwards. At 
seventeen I was two years behind my age—in the sticky 
sentimental stage—you know— Schwarmerei. Hurcey used 
to come down to stay with us at Baildon, and I became enam¬ 
oured of him. He was very good-looking—at least, I thought 
he was—pale, with fair hair brushed right back, and soulful 
eyes. I was The Perfect Fool over that boy. When I knew 
I was going to see him my heart used to swell and throb until 
I thought it would burst my ribs, and when he came on me 
unexpectedly it nearly did. I could hardly talk to him at 
all—do you know it is really true, and not a figure of 
speech, that shyness at that age may make it impossible for 
one to open one’s mouth?” 

“Emotional paralysis of the motor branch of the mandib¬ 
ular division of the trigeminal nerve,” murmured Harding. 





DAMWILY 


97 


“Of course, you know. I forgot for the moment that you 
were medical too. Hurcey didn’t take much notice of me at 
first, although Anna chaffed him as to the conquest he had 
made. I suppose he looked on me as a silly kid. Then it 
dawned on him that it might be ‘a good thing.’ He applied, 
all proper, to Anna, and said might he pay his addresses to 
me. 

“Anna, at first, laughed it off. I think she wanted him 
herself. However, she changed her mind, and played up. 
We became engaged. Anna made grandfather promise to 
allow us three thousand a year, and we were to be married 
when I was nineteen. I was in the seventh heaven. Hurcey 
went to town to tell his people. Then grandfather heard 
something about Hurcey—I don’t know what it was—and 
withdrew his consent. Hurcey was furious. He came down 
to Baildon, and blustered and whined alternately. I wept 
floods. I was almost insane over it—I persuaded myself 
Anna had conspired to take Hurcey away from me. I am 
sure now—I have been for years—that she never did any¬ 
thing of the kind. I suppose I conceived the idea because 
she had cocked her eye at Hurcey originally, and I had 
guessed it.” 

“Is that all?” 

“Except that I wrote silly letters to Hurcey while he was 
in London—two or three a day—and several more after it 
was all over.” 

“What was in them?” 

“Slop-stuff.” Katrine added with characteristic frank¬ 
ness: “Some of it not clean slops. I was pretty nearly an 
erotomaniac at that time, only I never erottoed over anyone 
else. I ceased to write when I learned that he was threaten¬ 
ing proceedings against grandfather, as my ‘nearest friend,’ 


98 “ QUACK ! ” 

on the ground that I had trifled with his young affections—” 

“He didn’t do that?” 

“Yes, he did. Grandfather gave him a thousand pounds 
as compensation, and he went abroad.” 

“He has been away more or less ever since, hasn’t he?” 

“Yes. I believe he has been home two or three times, but 
we never happened to meet.” 

“Didn’t he ever write to you?” 

“He sent me a picture postcard from some place—I 
forget where.” 

“But you have heard of him?” 

“Lots. His sister, Greta, is a great friend of Adrienne 
Schorn, and Irma Schorn and I were chummy until she 
went to Australia.” 

“What did you hear about him?” 

“Nothing good.” 

“Very bad?” 

“No. Just that he was a waster. Why are you asking 
all these questions?” 

“He is back in London.” 

“You have seen him?” 

“Today.” 

“Where?” 

“At his rooms in Dover Street. He said casually that he 
didn’t see much of his people.” 

“No. He quarrelled with them—or rather they cold- 
shouldered him. Why did you go to see him?” 

“He sent for me.” 

“Is he ill?” 

“Very ill. He wants to see you.” 

Katrine got up, and stood with her face to the fireplace. 
—“Does he know I married you?” 


DAMWILY 


99 


“Oh, yes. That was—in his view—a reason for assuming 
that he and I ought to be friends.” 

“I do not wish to see him.” 

“I hope you will go.” 

Katrine wheeled quickly.—“You don’t mean ...” 

The answer to her unfinished question hung in the air 
like a drawn sword. 

Harding nodded. 

“Oh, Harry—is it a question of-?” 

“Just that.” 

“I cannot help you.” 

There was a long pause. Katrine pulled her forces 
together. 

“Very well. I mustn’t funk. I will go tomorrow after¬ 
noon.” 

When Katrine stumbled into the motor after spending an 
hour with Hurcey Witte, she was inexpressibly relieved to 
find Harding in the car. He made room for her, and they 
started at once for home. Neither spoke, nor did he touch 
her. He was just there. 

Safe in the drawing-room, she broke down. 

“I can’t help decide, Harry. I can’t consult.” 

Harding waited. Katrine cried after her manner— 
silently, and without facial contortions. 

She blew her nose and steadied herself.—“You must 
decide without me.” 

“How can I, under the circumstances?” 

“Because he is a relative of mine? That need not cause 
any difficulty. You may poison off quite a number of my 
relations if you get a chance—and good riddance. But— 
hut-” 

She came close to him. 


100 


“ QUACK ! ” 


“Hal—isn’t he a worm?” 

“Was he always such a worm?” 

“I don’t think so. I don’t know—I was in love with him. 
That is why I can’t—don’t you see?” 

“If I were to decide alone, and decide that he wasn’t 
worth saving, what would you think of me?” 

Her eyes searched his. “And if I help you to decide, and 
you agree to save him in consequence of what I say, what 
will you think of me?” 

A pause. 

They both smiled. 

Katrine took a deep breath. “I think you are the most 
wonderful man that ever happened.” 

“And I think you are the most wonderful woman that 
ever happened. The meeting of the Mutual Admiration 
Society will now close, and the Selection Committee will 
sit.” 

People who deal in life and death jest over their business 
—they could not deal with it if they did not. 

Harding ticked off the points of the case with the out¬ 
spread fingers of one of his muscular hands on a table. 

“Therefore, there is progressive autotoxication, and death 
may ensue at any time from syncope.” 

“Can he be restored to health?” 

“I think it is possible to inhibit the excess of secretion in 
the suprarenals by . . 

Followed a technical explanation. 

“I see. What impression did he make on you per¬ 
sonally?” 

“The impression he made yesterday was unpleasant. He 
talked freely, treating me, from the moment I entered the 
room until I left it, exactly as if we had been boon com- 


DAMWILY 


101 


panions—as if we had low tastes in common. A waster— 
an utter waster, a man who has choused his way through life 
with the impudence of a Figaro and the morals of a Casa¬ 
nova. That was the impression he gave me.” 

Every vestige of colour left Katrine’s face while Harding 
was speaking. When he paused, she faltered: 

“Then—your opinion is entirely-” 

“No. He said something this afternoon which to a great 
extent altered my view. I told him you would be coming in 
about four. He talked of you yesterday in a way which made 
me curl up like a hedgehog, and I was hardly able today to 
bring myself to pronounce your name. To my surprise, he 
looked away and said: ‘I never appreciated her, Fullar. I 
didn’t realise how splendid she was.’ He spoke in a low 
voice—so low that I only just caught the words.” 

Katrine shook her head. “That was the poet in him.” 

“You did not tell me he was a poet.” 

“I don’t know that he is, now. But he was. He pub¬ 
lished, about a year after our engagement was broken off. 
I should have thought he would have told you—he always 
used to convey the fact to every stranger in the first five 
minutes.” 

“No, he said nothing. What sort of poetry was it—any 
good?” 

“I have the book somewhere.” 

The drawing-room had been refurnished for Katrine, and 
liberal accommodation for books provided. She searched 
the shelves. 

“Here it is.” She handed Harding a slender white 
volume. 

He opened it. Large type—wide margins- 

But some readable verses. 




102 “ QUACK ! ” 

“I like this—‘The Truthseekers’— 

‘For on us is there laid command 
Whate’er our toil and pains 
To sift the shifting river sand 

Gaining the golden grains . . ” 

“Rather doggerel, isn’t it? There was one I used to 

like-” Katrine leaned over Harding and turned the 

pages. “I have really forgotten them—oh, here it is-” 

They went through the volume. 

“There is some good work,” said Harding. “Is this all 
he has done?” 

“Except impress india-rubber stamps on passports and 
do the weary-polite to English visitors. He contrived to 
secure employment as a consular clerk when he had spent 
most of grandfather’s money—did you know?” 

“Yes. There is no doubt about one thing, Rina. You say 
that some of this is doggerel, and some imitative. Very likely 
you are right, because you know about those things. But 
the chap is a poet in feeling, and sometimes it finds verbal 
expression.” 

“Is that in his favour?” 

“Certainly.” 

“I should agree if he had taken the trouble to give the 
world the benefit of his gift. He hasn’t—except to that very 
small extent.” 

Harding eyed his wife. “Rina—suppose you had had to 
decide this question quite soon after your engagement was 
broken off—no, let me say, after your infatuation had 
passed away—but soon after: what would you have said 
then?” 

Katrine reflected. “I should have said we ought to give 
him a chance.” 




DAMWILY 


103 


“Then why not now?” 

“I have not said that we ought not to do so now. On the 
whole, I think we ought. But not for your reasons.” 

She paused. Harding waited. 

“For what reasons, then?” he ventured after a time. 

“He has a keen perception of beauty—an intellectual 
perception, apart from the feeling you mentioned. It may 
be perverted, according to the ideas of people like ourselves, 
but nevertheless it is in itself original and penetrative. His 
intuitions are delicate and fine—he is almost feminine in 
that respect. Lastly, he has an extraordinary sense of 
human fellowship. He would have treated anyone he knew, 
or knew of—even a beggar out of the street—just as he 
treated you when you went to him yesterday. People are 
all on the same level to Hurcey.” 

Harding paced the room. “I think he ought to have a 
chance.” 

Katrine went to him and put her hands on his breast. 
“But you don’t think I-” 

His answer satisfied her. 

Hurcey Witte could not find words in which to express his 
gratitude. That was not for want of trying—he haunted the 
house almost daily, and whenever he had occasion to greet 
Harding delivered himself of some such phrase as—“My 
dear old chap, I never see you but I ask myself where I 
should be but for you. Hard to say, what?” Then he 
would laugh. At other times—perhaps, over dinner, to 
which he had forced them to invite him by pressing them 
to dine with him at a restaurant—he would burst out with: 
“You are a marvel, Hal. No wonder London is going mad 
on you. I tell everyone I meet—I do really. I say—four 


104 


44 QUACK ! ” 


months ago I was going out. Four doctors had shaken their 
heads over me. I sent for Harding Fullar—relation of 
mine. Hadn’t called him in before because he was a rela¬ 
tion. Result—here I am, perfectly well—back to my 
normal weight—able to eat and drink anything—what?” 

Nothing irritates a man more than to have a comparative 
stranger whom he dislikes address him by the pet-name 
which his young wife has selected precisely because no one 
else used it. Harding, being reserved by nature, did not 
mention to Katrine that Hurcey’s “Hal” irked him: Katrine, 
likewise naturally reserved, did not mention to Harding 
that in her it lit a flame. Instead, they joked to each other 
about Hurcey, nicknaming him “Snapp,” short for Sinapism 
(a mustard plaster), in allusion to the infliction of his 
almost perpetual presence. Both of them felt a kind of 
shamefacedness as to putting an end to the infliction sum¬ 
marily. When you have saved a man’s life, it is difficult 
to round on him and say that you do not desire his further 
acquaintance. 

It is also dangerous, when husband and wife are on the 
terms described, to try to come between them. 

After they had suffered in this way for three or four 
weeks, Harding made a change in his habits. Hitherto he 
had stayed at home all afternoon to receive patients; now 
he received only till four, and then went out: the change 
was necessitated by the increasing demand for his services 
in desperate cases. Hurcey took advantage of it to subject 
Katrine to a new kind of persecution, which he had been 
prevented from indulging in before by Harding’s habit of 
popping up into the drawing-room in odd moments. 44 You 
don’t seem able to do without Kat for five minutes,” Hurcey 
had had the impertinence to tell him one day when the pop- 


DAMWILY 


105 


ping had occurred three times. “That was why I married 
her,” retorted Harding, and the easy tone of the answer over¬ 
lay a grimness which Hurcey would have been wise to take 
warning by. But now, unless other callers were there, 
Hurcey had the field to himself between four and six or 
half-past. He embarked upon a sentimental courtship, 
which began in harkings-back to the period of their engage¬ 
ment. 

“You know, Kat, if only you had been able to stand up 
for yourself in those days, we should have been married. 
But of course you were under your grandfather’s thumb.” 

Katrine had no desire to discuss the subject. She ardently 
resented Hurcey’s advances, but they were so artfully 
cloaked that she found it impossible to express her resent¬ 
ment in plain words. To all other ways of expressing it, 
and she neglected none of those the least of which is effect¬ 
ive in the case of most men—men are usually timid crea¬ 
tures—Hurcey was deaf, blind, and everything but mute. 
She tried to escape him by going out. He would turn up in 
this house or that—most of her relations were his relations 
too, and he was sufficiently acquainted with many of her 
friends to risk a call—attach himself to her, appropriate 
her, see her home, and perseveringly try to bore his way 
back into her heart. She knew that she ought to tell 
Harding of this development in Hurcey’s worminess, but it 
seemed to her that to do so would imply that she doubted 
herself, which she did not. At last she lost patience. 

Hurcey followed her home from a house where she had 
been paying a call. She had refused to allow him to get 
into the motor with her, and was irritated beyond endurance 
when he turned up, a quarter of an hour after she had 
reached Cadogan Gardens, with: “Wanted to call some- 


106 “ QUACK ! ” 

where on the sly, eh? You needn’t have been afraid I 
would tell Harding. We all have our little secrets.” 
Katrine was on the point of retorting that she had no 
secrets from Harding, when it occurred to her that she had 
one. It—or the cause of it—stood before her. She took 
refuge in her bedroom, hoping that he would go if she 
left him alone long enough. 

He did not go. She waited, chafing, for Harding to come 
home. He was late. 

“Snappy’s here. Go and throw him out.” 

Harding laughed. “Right. Is he still as snappy as ever? 
I don’t see so much of him nowadays.” 

They went as far as the drawing-room door together, 
arm-in-arm. 

“Don’t be weak and let him stay to dinner,” Katrine 
adjured. “If you do, I shall say there isn’t enough to eat.” 

Harding laughed again. 

She detached herself, not intending to go in until Hurcey 
had departed. Harding opened the door, and Hurcey’s silky 
voice reached her ears: 

“Here you are at last, old fruit! We’ve been expecting 
you for hours.” 

That “we” made Katrine so angry that she went in. 
Hurcey was saying: 

“There’s something about you, Hal, which does one 
good—a sort of vital force—apart from your scientific 
attainments and your marvellous skill. Well! I never 
shall be able to express my gratitude.” 

“You might pay your bill,” suggested Katrine in her 
levellest tone. 

For once Hurcey was thrown on his beam ends. The 
impudence which usually enabled him to keep his course 


DAMWILY 


107 


undeflected by adverse puffs failed momentarily under this 
sudden gust. 

“By Jove, I say—haven’t I, really? You’re not joking, 
Kat? I thought I had.” 

“You have not.” 

“That’s awfully remiss of me. How much is it? I don’t 
know whether I’ve got a loose cheque ...” 

“Oh, don’t bother,” said Harding uncomfortably. He was 
vexed with Katrine for bringing business into the drawing¬ 
room. His slowly-growing power to read her inner mind 
had not served him in regard to Hurcey. “I don’t know why 
Katrine mentioned it. Dorothy looks after the accounts.” 

“No, I haven’t,” exclaimed Hurcey in regretful tones, 
referring to the hypothetical blank cheque for which he had 
been looking in his letter-case. “I’ll write it out tonight, if 
I can find the bill. If not I’ll call and give it to Dorothy 
tomorrow.” 

“Don’t trouble to call. If the cheque doesn’t come in 
the morning I will tell her to send you a note of the 
amount.” Katrine’s utterance was even leveller than before 
—despite the grammatical impossibility. 

“Do. Thanks awfully. Well—it’s past your dinner- 
hour, isn’t it? I must be going.” 

He lingered, however, and Harding—who, man-like, was 
ashamed of Katrine’s outspokenness—had the obviously- 
awaited invitation on his lips when he got a look from 
Katrine that froze him. Hurcey went. 

“What made you say that about the bill, Rina?” Hard¬ 
ing’s tone betrayed his vexation. 

“You hadn’t thrown him out, and I was determined he 
should go. If I had not prevented you, you would have 
been weak again and asked him to dinner.” 


108 “ QUACK ! ” 


“Yes, but-” 

“Don’t worry yourself. He won’t pay. He never has 
had the least intention of doing so, or he would have done 
it long ago.” 

“How did you know he hadn’t?” 

“I didn’t. But I know him.” 

He did pay, however. He must have found the bill, for 
the cheque came next morning. Harding told Katrine. 

“I suppose he thinks he will get his money’s worth even¬ 
tually.”—The thought was a reversion, in kind and form, 
to her pre-Harding days.—“Well, he’s wrong.”—She told 
Florrie that she would never be at home to Mr. Hurcey 
Witte in future. Florrie said, “Yes, ma’am,” in the approved 
blank form: but Katrine knew that it wasn’t in human 
nature for it not to be discussed downstairs, with Mrs. 
Snaith and Dorothy at least. Her cheeks warmed. She 
had said nothing to Harding as to her intention, and meant 
to leave him to find out that she had acted. But even giving 
Florrie the instruction caused a twinge of that horrid feeling 
that it seemed as if she were not really sure of herself. 
And she was—she was! 

Hurcey Witte’s view of his principal occupation—the 
pursuit of women—was that success depends upon per¬ 
sistence and sufficient determination to take advantage of 
the inevitable ultimate opportunity. It is the view which 
commends itself to the male in pursuit of the pleasure that 
fleets in the moment of realisation. Katrine’s closed door 
encouraged rather than discouraged him. The semi-feminine 
intuition which she had noted as a characteristic jumped to 
the conclusion that she was afraid. Moreover, a “closed 
door” is a figure of speech: all doors are opened sometimes, 
even those in cathedrals which open only to admit bishops- 



DAMWILY 


109 


elect for consecration and bishops-defunct for burial. 
Katrine’s door in Cadogan Gardens was necessarily opened 
more frequently. Hurcey went in one afternoon with a 
late caller. 

“Mrs. Fullar is not at home, sir.” 

“Oh, yes, she is, Florrie.” Hurcey winked derisively. 
He divested himself of his overcoat. The caller waited. 

“Will you please go up, ma’am? The drawing-room is 
at the top of the stairs on the left.”—Florrie was cool, even 
if not quite equal to the situation.—“Mrs. Fullar told me to 
say she was not at home to you, sir.” 

“I know. We had a tiff. I’ve come to make it up. We’re 
cousins—you know that?” Hurcey went up. 

Florrie followed him. He laughed at her. 

Florrie, however, was not to be deterred. She entered the 
drawing-room bravely, at his heels. 

“I only wished to say that I carried out your orders, 
ma’am.” She glanced up expressively at Hurcey and down 
again. 

“Thank you, Florrie. I am sure you did.” 

Florrie retired to bring fresh tea. 

“Hurcey—you have deliberately forced your way in 
despite the orders you must have known I had given, and 
that compels me to speak out. I don’t want you here. 
Please go. No—I am not interested in any explanation.” 

“Nevertheless, you must hear it.” Hurcey sat down again; 
he had ushered out the caller. “You can’t throw me out, 
Kat.” 

Katrine was crocheting. She had taken to working with 
her fingers since her marriage, a fact the significance of 
which escaped Hurcey. It is the contented women who 
habitually occupy themselves in that way. 


110 “ QUACK ! ” 

She reiterated—“I ask you to go.” 

“As soon as I have said what I am going to say. You were 
engaged to me once, Kat. You loved me, in those days.” 

“Forget it,” said Katrine tersely—not for the first time. 

“I can’t forget it. I have never forgotten it. I am not 
going to pretend that there have not been other women in 
my life-” 

“Really, Hurcey, I am not in the least interested in your 
women or your life. I simply don’t desire your company.” 

“You can’t stop me, Kat. I never forgave myself for 
giving you up—we were both weak, but it was I who ought 
to have been stronger. That fact tortures me. Don’t you 
see that it must?” 

Katrine went on crocheting. 

“I went away. I had to go—to forget. But I couldn’t 
forget. Nevertheless, I never bothered you, never wrote 
to you, never disturbed even by a line the peace of mind I 
hoped you had found, even if I could not find it.” 

He had forgotten the picture postcard. 

“I was taken ill. I came back to England, almost dying. 
I was actually dying when Mervyn James came to look me 
up, and I told him about the men I’d had in. He said: 
‘Haven’t you had Fullar?’ The result you know. Of 
course, I’m gratefuh-” 

“So grateful that you repay him by persecuting his wife.” 
The observation came from her subconscious mind. The 
conscious part of her mind was numbed by the mechanical 
repetition of to-and-fro in her fingers, and the caressing 
tones of Hurcey’s voice. 

He passed it over. “But after all, we are cousins-” 

“A relationship is not to be presumed on, Hurcey.” 

He passed this over too. 






DAMWILY 


111 


“I had no idea—none whatever—that my love for you was 
capable of reviving in its former strength. I knew that it 
was still there, but I believed it to be dormant. I did not 
realise that seeing you, talking to you, refreshing myself 
with the delicious coolness of your personality, would 
re-awaken it.” 

Hers was not the only personality that was cool, reflected 
Katrine. It might be more accurate to say that something 
deep down in her made the reflection. She was falling 
again under the charm which had formerly enthralled her 
—the charm of Hurcey’s voice. 

“Kat, it has me by the throat. I don’t ask you to throw 
Harding down—that would not be reasonable—but—I’m 
on fire—I’m suffering the torments of St. Anthony—can’t 
you spare me just a little love?” 

He pronounced the word in a voice so low that it seemed 
to glide imperceptibly to her ears. 

She had endured his indirect approaches because to put an 
end to them, in the only way in which they could be put an 
end to, seemed to imply doubt as to her love for her hus¬ 
band, and she loved her husband with every bit of her, from 
toes and finger-tips to her hair. She had never even con¬ 
templated the possibility of flirting with another man since 
she had known the mature Harding. She had been certain 
—absolutely certain—that she could and would resist. Now 
the last moment had come—Hurcey’s face was close to hers 
—and something had numbed her power of resistance. In 
those seconds Katrine added another item to her store of 
knowledge of a certain kind—a store largely forced upon 
her in her unmarried days. She learnt why a woman who 
has every reason to go right sometimes goes wrong. 

Hurcey’s lips were on the point of touching hers. She did 


112 


“ QUACK ! ” 


the only thing a heart-true woman can do when nature 
betrays her better nature—smashed through the insidious 
temptation. She hit out with all her force: her clenched 
fist caught Hurcey full on the mouth. 

The blow almost knocked him down. He staggered, 
tripped on the fender, nearly fell into the fireplace, and 
recovered himself by means of an improvised dance-step. 

Katrine laughed. “Does that make it plain to you?” 

Hurcey, with one hand covering his mouth, was feeling 
for his handkerchief with the other. He found it, and 
dabbed his lips, casting angry glances at her. Gingerly, 
with finger and thumb, he investigated the damage. 

“You have loosened two of my teeth.” 

“I wish I had knocked them out.” 

Hurcey laughed. It was an ugly laugh. He desired 
strongly to give her a good punch in the face to teach her 
manners. But he reflected that there was a better means of 
producing the desired effect. It was a means which he had 
been holding over in case it might be useful. 

“Look here, Kat—that was a very caddish thing to do. 
You know I can’t retaliate. But I can retaliate in another 
way, and if you don’t become reasonable, I will.” 

“Nonsense. Get out of the house and never enter it 
again.” 

“We’ll see whether you mean that. How much do you 
think Anna would give me for those letters of yours?” 

Lady Charnleigh was Anna to the whole of the family 
connections—never “Aunt Anna” or “Cousin Anna”—simply 
Anna, as if she had been their queen, or an outsider, both 
of which in fact she was. 

My letters?”—So he had kept them—the worm!— 
“Twopence, perhaps—to laugh over.” 


DAMWILY 


113 


“Ten or twenty thousand pounds.” 

“You had better sell them to her, then. The transaction 
would accord with your character.” 

“Would it? I have had them for this year past, haven’t 
I? If I had wanted to make money out of them I could 
have done it any time, couldn’t I? Why didn’t I?” 

“I haven’t the least idea. It isn’t at all like you.—Do 
leave me, Hurcey. I am not interested.” 

“You know perfectly well why I didn’t—why I never 
thought of such a thing. I didn’t keep them to make money 
out of.” 

“Why did you keep them, then?” 

“Because they were my only link with you.” 

“Wake up, Hurcey. You must be dreaming to suppose I 
should believe such twaddle. Take the letters to Anna. 
Make whatever bargain you like—though why you should 
expect her to give you even twopence for them I can’t 
imagine. No—don’t tell me—I don’t care. Just go.” 

“Wake up yourself, Kat. You must have forgotten what 
was in them.” 

A qualm shook Katrine. What had she written in those 
semi-hysterical outpourings? 

“Don’t you recollect saying that Anna was to blame for 
the rupture, although she had put it on to your grandfather 
—that she could do anything she liked with him? Don’t 
you see how strongly that would support her case? She is 
trying to upset the settlement on Pat on the plea that she— 
Anna—brought it about by the exercise of undue influence— 
that Charnleigh was no longer capable of resisting her when 
it was made. Well, you said, in so many words, ten years 
ago, that even then he was no longer capable of resisting 
her. No doubt it was so. She would have called you as a 


114 


“ QUACK ! ” 


witness if she didn’t know that you hate her so profoundly 
you would try to do her all the harm you could. But with 
those letters she would have the whip-hand, because they 
could be put to you in the witness-box, and you couldn’t 
deny that they expressed your view at the time.” 

Katrine was appalled. She had assumed complete de¬ 
tachment from Lady Charnleigh’s manoeuvres in the law 
courts, and snubbed everyone who hinted that she had any 
interest in them. If she were called as a witness, she would 
have to go and give evidence, and the evidence would 
necessarily be favourable to the contention that Lady 
Charnleigh was putting forward. Whereupon, kind friends 
all over London would take it for granted that Anna had 
somehow squared her, and that they were acting in concert. 

“Come, now, Kat—do you want to go into the box and 
be badgered and bullied? Do you want to see extracts from 
those letters set out in the Daily Scream —they’re pretty 
meaty in the way of expressions of affection. You were an 
outspoken little hot-lot. It would do Harding a lot of good 
professionally—I don’t think.” 

The sneaking, calculating, lustful devil! He had de¬ 
tected, by virtue of his share in the qualities of her sex, 
the reason why she had kept out of The Charnleigh Case, 
and he was using that too against her. 

She forced herself to speak calmly. 

“You are too silly for words this afternoon, Hurcey. 
We are not living in a cinema-play.” 

“No? Well, some things you see at the pictures do 
happen in real life occasionally. This is going to be one 
of them.” 

He was dangerous. What should she do? A jumble of 
thoughts raced through her brain—confused recollections of 


DAMWILY 


115 


plays and books. What did women do who were cornered 
in this way by a moral blackmailer? Cajole, pretend—go 
to his rooms to get the letters and chance being able to get 
away unscathed—risk the door being slyly locked- 

That gave her an idea. She turned her head, and a wave 
of thankfulness swept through her. She had been amused 
by Harding’s middle-class fussiness as to the upkeep of the 
house. If the key of the drawing-room door had been miss¬ 
ing, he would have noticed the fact, spoken to Mrs. Snaith 
about it, had the key replaced: and she would have thought 
—“What does it matter? Who ever wants to lock the 
drawing-room door?” 

But—thank God, oh, thank God!—Harding was fussy, 
and the key of the drawing-room door was in its place. 
The proper place for keys is on the inside. 

“Half a minute, Hurcey-” 

She spoke casually, rose sedately, walked to the door— 
and locked it. She took out the key. 

“What’s that for?” 

It was necessary to temporise a little now. “So that we 
can have the rest of our talk undisturbed.” 

“But I say—if ole pal Hal comes back, won’t it make him 
suspicious—what? He’s got a trick of popping in on us.” 

If there had been any chance of Katrine pleading for 
mercy on Hurcey’s behalf when Harding came home, that 
“ole pal Hal” removed it. Never had he previously dared 
to refer to Harding in that way. 

She resumed her crocheting. “You need not be uneasy. 
He will not be in yet awhile.”—Harding had said he would 
probably be home early. 

“Oh—that’s all right, then.” Hurcey came to sit beside 
her. “Kat—you’ve made my mouth so sore I don’t think 




116 “ QUACK ! ” 

I can kiss you properly, but just a teeny one—what?” 

“I want to talk to you first.” 

“Fire away, then.” He put his arm round her. She 
bore that. 

“What is it you want to say? Hurry up.” 

She had nothing to say. Her mind was filled by a 
desperate longing for her man. 

“Well—there is one thing in which you have greatly dis¬ 
appointed me, Hurcey. Ever since that book of yours came 
out—of course I read it, and recognised myself, or rather 
the idealised girl you had created out of me—I have been 
expecting to hear of another. There was some good work 
in that—there really was. I am not saying it to flatter you.” 
—That at any rate was true. 

“Which did you like best?” 

Katrine thanked heaven that she and Harding had gone 
through the book. 

“There was a sonnet about the sunset at Charnleigh— 
about the twin towers of Charnleigh Church—‘and still the 
darkness falters round their feet.’ I forget just now how it 
begins—no, wait a minute.” 

She was keeping him in play. 

“ ‘The thoughtful dusk floats upwards from the ground 
And hangs: for sunfall thoughts are leaden things 
In days when hopes and dreams have lost their wings.’ ” 

“How well you know it!” chuckled the flattered Hurcey. 
“What else?” 

She contented herself with titles. Harding would cer¬ 
tainly not be long now. 

“ ‘Water Lily’—I knew that was meant for me—our boat¬ 
ing on the lake—wasn’t it?” 

“Of course.” 


DAMWILY 


117 


“ ‘Sardonyx’—‘Aurea Rosata’—that was a pretty compli¬ 
ment to my hair, Hurcey—and ‘Pinions.’ I think I liked 
those next best—especially that last line in ‘Pinions’— 
‘Fluttered, and fell.’ You touched high-water mark there, 
Hurcey.” 

“You say you liked them then. Don’t you still like 
then?” He fondled her. 

With great difficulty she kept still. 

“Oh, yes. I was reading them over not long before we 
met again.”—Another skilful half-truth.—“I read some of 
them to Harding. He liked them too.” 

“Did he? I shouldn’t have supposed he cared for that 
sort of thing.” 

“He said when he had read them that you ought to have 
a chance.”—She dared! 

“A chance of what?” 

“To do even better and finer things. That was what I 
wanted to talk to you about. You ought to have done better 
things before now, Hurcey. You are capable of them-” 

“ You flatter me. But, I say, Kat—it’s after six. Aren’t 
you going to give me just a little one?” 

She was becoming desperate. Oh, why didn’t Harding 
come ? 

“Not tonight, Hurcey. I don’t feel like it.” 

“What did you lock the door for, then?” There was a 
hint of suspicion in his tone, and her heart began to beat 
strongly. She did not answer. 

“Eh?—Well, I can’t stay any longer, anyhow. Pm 
dining with a fellow tonight. So you’d better unlock it.” 

Silence. Katrine bent her head over her work. 

Hurcey had risen. He was standing over her, looking 
down at her bent head. 


118 


“QUACK!” 


“Give me the key, if you don’t want to open the door 
yourself.” Suspicion was rough in his voice by this 
time. 

She remained silent. 

“Look here—I’m not going to stand this. Do you expect 
to keep me here against my will? Who’s acting for the 
picture-plays now? Give me that key.” 

“I won’t.” She was forced to speak at last. 

“What!” He stared at her. “Don’t be silly, Kat. 
You’ll only be hurt.” 

“Perhaps. But it will be all the worse for you, when 
Harding arrives.” 

“Oh, so that’s it!” 

“Yes, that is it. You are too much for me, Hurcey. I 
knew you were a reptile, but I did not know you were veno¬ 
mous. I can’t deal with you, so I am going to keep you 
here till Harding comes.” 

“Are you?” He tried to seize her. She jumped up. 
There was a scuffle. Her woman-instinct led her to seek 
refuge in a corner. That was foolish, because he followed 
her instantly, and she could not get away. 

“Give me that key, Kat.” 

“Not. on your life.” 

“Give me that key.” 

She shook her head. He seized her wrists, and they 
struggled. Hurcey at first only wanted the key: his desire 
to hurt her in return for hitting him in the mouth had dis¬ 
appeared. But struggling violently with a woman is one of 
those things from which almost every man shrinks in cold 
blood and finds surprisingly blood-warming after he has 
begun. Hurcey did not know what Katrine had done with 
the key. He could not search her because he had to hold 


DAMWILY 


119 


her hands—he would otherwise have been capable of it 
—so he began to twist them round. 

“Where is it? . . . Where is it? . . . Where is it?” 

“You are hurting me hellishly.” 

“I’ll hurt you more . . . where is it?” 

She choked back a scream. 

“Ouch. If you will let go I will tell you-” 

He released her. 

“When Harding comes.” 

“You little fool!” He struck her in the face. 

She dropped on to her knees. The blow had only half 
gone home because she instinctively tried to dodge it, and 
Hurcey was no boxer and had no idea of timing it: but it 
hurt her abominably. She felt as if she would be sick. 
Her head swam. She was helpless. 

Someone outside turned the handle of the door. 

“Harding!”—Despair and joy mingled in the wail. 

“That you, Rina? The door’s locked.” 

“Take care what you say,” whispered Hurcey, rapidly 
collecting his wits, dispersed during the struggle. “This 
may ruin you for life if you don’t.” 

Katrine called with difficulty: “Wait a minute. Don’t 
go away.” 

“Give me the key, and I’ll open the door.” Hurcey was 
reflecting that delay would look very ugly. 

Katrine did not answer in words. She struggled to her 
feet, stumbled across the room, and opened the door. As 
Harding entered she fell into his arms. 

Hurcey reflected rapidly. The necessary explanation 
would be difficult to make; Harding was supporting 
Katrine to a chair . . . 

“Don’t go just yet, Hurcey.” Harding’s tone was so 


120 “ QUACK ! ” 

casual that Hurcey was deceived into commencing an 
excuse. 

44J_« 

“Don’t let him go,” gasped Katrine as she sat down. Her 
collapse made her ashamed; for the moment it was almost 
complete. “Lock the door.” 

Harding walked to the door and locked it. 

“I say!” protested Hurcey in an injured tone. 

“Take out the key.” 

Harding took out the key and pocketed it. He returned 
to Katrine and stood beside her chair. 

Hurcey tried again. “Kat is a bit upset because-” 

“Just a minute, Hurcey. She will be all right in another 
minute or two—won’t you, old girl?” 

“I am all right now.” Katrine gathered her forces. 

“That Thing,” she began in very nearly her usual level 
tone, “wriggled ITS way in this afternoon in face of the 
orders I had given that IT was not to be admitted—orders 
which Florrie did her best to carry out. I did not tell you, 
at the time, that I had given them, for a reason which I will 
explain when we are alone. IT informed me that the lust 
which vitalises IT had condescended to select me as a 
promising victim, and IT beslavered me with the verbal 
slime which IT manufactures for the purpose of benumb¬ 
ing ITS victims. IT then tried to kiss me. Not being 
sufficiently benumbed, I hit IT in the mouth. IT turned 
venomous, and threatened that unless I yielded to ITS un¬ 
clean desires, IT would hand over to Anna the letters which 
I wrote to IT during and just after the engagement between 
us ten years ago. The point of the threat was ingenious. I 
told you that the letters contained erotic expressions, but 
I did not then remember what else they contained. IT says 




DAMWILY 


121 


that I blamed Anna for the breaking of our engagement, 
and described in forcible terms the excessive influence 
which she exercised over grandfather. IT says, and IT is 
probably right, that these letters of mine would be very use¬ 
ful to Anna in her present manoeuvres, and that if she had 
them in her possession she would call me as a witness, in 
which case the letters would be read in court, and, of course, 
the sticky parts printed in the newspapers. IT had been 
clever enough to divine that I would do almost anything 
rather than be mixed up more than I can help with Anna 
and her unsavoury affairs, and also that I would naturally 
be extremely loth—being lately married to you—to have 
my letters to IT published. IT had the delicacy to remind 
me that the publication of them would be especially humili¬ 
ating for you, in view of your profession and reputation. I 
think IT must have some glimmering of an idea that I love 
you, and that IT was merely mistaken in supposing that 
my love might lead me to wrong you. Not being equal to 
dealing with the situation by myself, I locked IT in until 
you came. Now will you please deal with IT as you think 
best. I shall not interfere, whatever you do, and I will give 
you all the help I can, if you need any. Only, if you kill 
IT, don’t do it here, because it would mess up the carpet.” 

Hurcey laughed. “Look here, Harding—there has been 
a complete misunderstanding. We were talking over old 
times, and I may have used some foolishly worded expres¬ 
sions of my regard for Kat. As to that nonsense about the 
letters, all I said was, chaffingly, that if I sent them to Anna 
certain things would happen. I was teasing Kat a little, 
that was all. Then she got excited, and-” 

“Quite so, quite so,” observed Harding soothingly. “I 
can see that she has been excited.”—He bent over her. 



122 > “ QUACK ! ” 

“Cool now, old lady? Right.”—He turned back to Hurcey. 
“Of course, you never intended to use the letters against her. 
No gentleman would.” 

“Of course not.” 

“In fact, you never intended to use them at all.” 

“Never in any way.” 

“You kept them out of sentiment, no doubt?” 

“Exactly.” 

“There was nothing improper in that. You and Katrine 
might conceivably have come together again, as long as 
neither of you was married, and then, of course, the letters 
would have been a treasure for both of you.” 

“I didn’t go as far as that,” said Hurcey with a friendly 
smile. Indeed Harding was dead-easy—he even hoodwinked 
himself. 

“No? Well, there would have been no harm in it—no 
harm at all. But now”—Harding’s tone was still casual— 
“as Katrine is married, the proper thing is to let her have 
her letters back.” 

“Er-” 

“She never asked you for them, probably, and you never 
thought of it. But I am sure you see now that it is the 
proper thing to return them.” 

“You are right. I will. I’ll send them back tomorrow.” 

“Let’s get it over,” said Harding in the most casual tone 
imaginable. “ ’Phone to your rooms, and tell whoever is 
there to bring them now.” 

“Er—there is no one there.” 

“Oh, yes, there is—that valet-chap who attends on you. 
Tell him.” 

“I don’t know where the letters are.” 

“Come, come. These dear letters from your old sweet- 



DAMWILY 


123 


heart? You have a desk in your sitting-room. They will 
be in there. Aren’t they?—Yes, I see they are.” 

“If they are, they are locked up.” 

“They are not,” came in Katrine’s characteristic utterance. 

Hurcey started. Harding took no notice of the inter¬ 
ruption. , 

“Come now, Hurcey. Misunderstandings of this kind are 
best cleared up on the spot. Let us make an end of the 
silly letters. Be a good chap and ’phone.” 

Hurcey reflected—hard. 

“I’ll call your number.” 

“No. You are trying to humiliate me, Harding. I am 
not going to have that fellow foraging among my private 
papers.” 

Harding’s good humour seemed unabated. “Why, you 
haven’t so many sets of love letters from old sweethearts 
as all that, have you?” 

“It is no business of yours what I may have.” Hurcey 
had decided to ride the high horse. 

“I am sorry if I was impertinent. But, Hurcey, I have 
accepted your explanation, which was that you had no 
purpose in view in keeping the letters, and all I ask is that 
you act upon it. You agreed with me that Katrine is 
entitled to have them if she wishes—you do wish it, don’t 
you, Rina?” 

Katrine answered levelly: “I do wish it.” She was 
crocheting again. 

“There now, you see, Hurcey. Come along—be a good 
lad.” 

“I’ll thank you not to use that tone to me, Harding!” 
cried Hurcey with sudden fierceness. “I don’t want any of 
your infernal condescension.” 


124 


“ QUACK ! ” 


“Ah-ha.” 

“I’ll tell you another thing,” continued Hurcey violently, 
“I am indifferent to your threats. I am not in the least 
afraid of anything you can do. Now be good enough to 
open that door!” 

He pointed to it dramatically. 

“Oh, I know which door you mean, Hurcey. There is 
only one in the room. But before you go through the 
doorway, I want those letters.” 

“You won’t get them.” 

“Ah!” said Harding, with a change of tone, “but I shall." 

He came close to Hurcey. 

“Hurcey—ring up your flat, tell your man where the 
letters are and what they look like, and to bring them here 
by taxi.” 

“No.” 

“Go to the telephone.” 

“No. Don’t threaten me.” 

“I won’t. But—I am a much stronger man, physically, 
than you are, am I not?” 

“Probably.” 

“With Katrine’s help—Katrine is quite a muscular speci¬ 
men now—I don’t know whether you have noticed it— 
I could probably carry out any threats I might make—if 
I did make any.” 

“Possibly.” 

“Hurcey—I want to remind you of something, for your 
own good.” Harding moved, almost imperceptibly, a little 
nearer. “I was for many years a professional vivisector”— 
their faces were nigh touching—“and, believe me, a highly 
expert vivisector —and no one in this house would take any 
notice however much you cried out.” 


DAMWILY 


125 


Katrine’s hook missed one stitch. 

There was a silence. It actually lasted less than ten 
seconds, but to Hurcey it was an age. 

“Telephone.” 

The word was final. Hurcey shivered, and stumbled 
across the room to where the telephone instrument stood on 
an occasional table. 

“Florrie or someone will answer: ask for Exchange first.” 

It was some time before Hurcey could get his man to the 
telephone. This was not because he did not try—he had 
become impatient to get done and go. At last the man was 
brought to the other end of the wire. 

“Will you do something for me, Wilkins? In my desk, 
in the middle drawer, at the back, there is a packet of letters 
in grey envelopes, tied up with string. Bring it to me, will 
you? . . . 81, Cadogan Gardens. Come in a taxi. . . . 
Oh, wrap them in a piece of paper and put-” 

“Your name,” said Harding swiftly. 

“My name on. . . . Yes, just—wait a minute.” 

He turned to Harding, covering the mouth of the trans¬ 
mitter with his free hand. “Do you want him to leave them 
with Florrie or whoever opens the door, or to bring them 
up here to me?” 

“Oh, let him leave them. I will see that Florrie has 
instructions.” 

“Leave them at the door,” said Hurcey obediently into 
the transmitter. “That’s all. . . . Yes. ... I say, Wilkins 
—don’t be longer than you can help. . . . Yes—there’s a 
good chap.” 

He replaced the handle with a sigh of relief. 

“All in order?” asked Harding pleasantly. 

“Quite in order.” 



126 


“ QUACK ! ” 


“Good. Thank you very much. Sit over there, will 
you?” Harding indicated the far corner of the room. “I 
want to use the ’phone myself.” 

Hurcey obeyed. 

“I just want to speak to my solicitor. It’s nearly seven, 
and he may be gone, but those chaps in the Temple are 
often kept late in term-time.” Harding took up the handle, 
standing over the telephone with his back to Hurcey. 

“City 9476, please. . . . Are you City 9476? . . . 
Mr. Harding Fullar speaking. Is Mr. Woodhouse there? 

. . . What? . . . Mr. Woodhouse. . . . Woodhouse. . . . 
Nonsense. He is a partner in your firm. . . . Are you 
City 9476? . . . Oh, hang!” 

He banged the transmitter down and jumped it up and 
down again, muttering: “The fool!” 

“Exchange . . . Exchange . . . Exchange. . . . Oh, 
leave the ’phone alone, Florrie—I am on with Exchange. 
... I say, you gave me a wrong number. I asked for 
City 9476. . . . Are you Archdale, Tander and Woodhouse? 
... Is Mr. Woodhouse there? ... He will speak to me, 
I think. Tell him Mr. Harding Fullar—a rather urgent 
matter. ... Is that you, Harold? . . . Sorry to bother 
you so late, and when you are busy, but . . . Thanks. 
Good chap. A fellow has been persecuting my wife with 
undesired attentions-” 

Both listeners started. 

“-and threatened that unless she yielded to him he 

would hand over some letters he has of hers to her step- 
grandmother, Lady Charnleigh. You know what Lady 
Charnleigh is after in those dens of iniquity you make a 
living out of? . . . Precisely. Katrine’s letters would be 
invaluable to Lady Charnleigh because they would prove 


DAMWILY 


127 


her contention. The point of the threat was that the letters 
are love letters, and as my wife was very young at the 
time, she expressed her feelings in rather . . . Yes. . . . 
Yes, you’ve got it. What I want to know is, can I go for 
him in some way?” 

The telephone bell rang. 

“Oh, damn!—Who is that? . . . Get off the wire. . . . 
What? . . . No, I can’t. I was speaking to someone and 
you butt in. . . . GET OFF THE WIRE! Can’t you under¬ 
stand? Ring off. Cut it out. . . . Oh, it’s you, Sainsby. 
Sorry. . . . Early tomorrow? It will have to be, because I 
already have a consultation fixed for nine-thirty. But, I say, 
old man, I was speaking to someone on a very urgent mat¬ 
ter. Would you mind ringing off now and I will ring 
you up in half an hour? . . . Thanks.” 

He began to fiddle the transmitter-support up and down 
again. 

“Exchange . . . Exchange. ... I was connected with 
City 9476 and someone else came through. Get me the 
number again, will you?” 

He turned round, holding the receiver in his hand, and 
smiled at Hurcey as he hummed a tune. Hurcey managed to 
stammer: 

“Look here, Harding—you’re acting like a fool. The 
letters will be bound to come out just the same.” 

“Will they? They will be brought into this room before 
you go out of it, and in less than a minute after they arrive 
they will be blazing in the fire. No one will ever read them 
again, believe me, Hurcey.” 

Hurcey collapsed. 

“Yes?”—Harding stood facing Hurcey, with the trans¬ 
mitter in one hand and the other behind his back.—“That 


128 “ QUACK ! ” 

you again, Harold? . . . Someone butted in. Go on. . . . 
Yes, he distinctly threatened her. ... A criminal offence? 
Oh, this is jam. . . . My wife will have to give evidence? 
She wonT mind a bit.” 

Katrine shivered. 

“The letters? I shall have them within an hour. They 
go into the fire promptly. . . . What? . . . But I don’t 
want them to get into the papers.” 

Hurcey had a spark of hope. 

“Oh—only to be shown to the jury. . . . All right, as 
long as they won’t be read in court. I’ll let you have them, 
only take care no one ,else sees them, old man. . . . Right. 
I can trust you. Now, how do we go about it? . . . He’s 
here. ... I can keep him as long as you like. . . . Excel¬ 
lent. . . . His name? Hurcey Vanderveen Witte. . . . 
H-u-r-c-e-y V-a-n-d-e-r-v-e-e-n W-i-t-t-e. . . . 54, Dover 

Street, West. . . . Gentleman? No. Half a minute-” 

He looked at Hurcey, dropped the hand with the trans¬ 
mitter in it, and said pleasantly: “Hurcey, what are you? 
Consular clerk, isn’t it?” 

“First grade,” gulped the victim. “But, Harding-” 

“I’ll talk to you presently.—First grade consular clerk. 
. . . Right. . . . Right. How long? . . . Well, ring me 
up when you have been on with Scotland Yard, because of 
dinner. . . . What? . . . No, I won’t give him any. He 
will get something to eat in gaol, I suppose? . . . Tomor¬ 
row morning? Oh, well, it won’t do him any harm to 
starve for one night. . . . What’s that? . . . Proof of 
delivery? . . . His man is bringing them. ... I see. . . . 
I see. . . . Don’t forget to ring me up when you have 
arranged it with Scotland Yard.” 

He replaced the transmitter, and went to Katrine’s writing 




DAMWILY 


129 


bureau. He sat down, found a sheet of paper, wrote 
steadily, blotted what he had written, and turned to Katrine 
with the paper in his hand. 

“Rina, will you go downstairs and tell Florrie that a 
man is coming with a small parcel for Hurcey. She must 
show him in to you. Get him to sign this paper.” 

He handed it to her. Mechanically she glanced at it. 
His hand fell on her shoulder, impelled her towards the 
door.—“You can read it as you go downstairs, old girl. 
Hurcey’s fellow might come and go away again if you are 
not quick.” 

On the landing, she stared bewilderedly at the words 
written. 

“It is all right now. What I really want you to do is to 
tell Florrie to ring up the drawing-room in a quarter of an 
hour, and immediately after to disconnect the line and take 
any calls that may come through. As to the letters, have 
them brought to you if you like, but if you want to lie down 
until dinner-time, which might be well, tell her to bring 
them straight to me.” 

Confused, unable to take in what it meant in relation to 
Hurcey’s arrest, she both carried out the instruction and 
accepted the advice. As she laid her aching head—for it 
had suddenly begun to ache—on the pillow, she wished that 
Harding had not been so vindictive. She had asked him to 
deal with the situation, and promised to assist him in any 
way he might require. She would do so. She would neither 
kick nor howl. But with all her heart she wished that he 
had been content to get the letters back and let Hurcey go. 

Meanwhile Hurcey was having a very bad time indeed. 


130 “ QUACK ! ” 

He tried to remonstrate. “This is perfectly ridiculous. 
You can’t prosecute me, Harding.” 

“I’ll attend to that,” replied Harding curtly. “You had 
better think what to say to your solicitor tomorrow. They 
will allow him to come to you, on an application being 
made.” 

Hurcey tried to think, not as to what he should say to his 
solicitor, but as to whether there was any way in which he 
could avoid being arrested. He knew enough about the law 
and its workings not to be seriously afraid as to what would 
happen to him afterwards; he would be brought before a 
magistrate, released on bail while his defence was being pre¬ 
pared, and subsequently have to meet in court the charge 
preferred against him, with the probable result that he 
would get off. But he would almost certainly receive a 
lecture from the magistrate, and the case would be reported 
in the newspapers, with highly undesirable effects on his 
future. He might even be discharged from the service on 
account of it. 

His brain was not perhaps working at its best. He had 
been through a somewhat strenuous time. In the space of 
two hours he had nearly succeeded in seducing an attractive 
woman, been struck in the mouth, tickled with flattery 
and then plunged into an exciting physical struggle, gone 
through moments of sharp apprehension, passed to easy 
confidence, and been bullied into parting with his weapon 
only to discover that his adversary had not the least idea 
of sparing him when he was disarmed. He felt much as a 
man might do who has been posing insouciantly on a trap¬ 
door, and finds it suddenly withdrawn, himself hanging 
precariously over a black gulf. Incidentally, he would 
probably go dinnerless and pass the night in gaol. Many 


DAMWILY 


131 


of us would not mind a night in gaol very much if we were 
allowed to fortify ourselves first, but hungry-! 

And Hurcey was a poet. 

Harding found Katrine lying on the bed with an eau-de- 
cologne-soaked handkerchief on her forehead. He sat down 
beside her. She held out a hand. 

“He didn’t knock you about seriously, did he, darling?” 

She had said nothing of being knocked about. 

“No. I’m all right. Only my head aches a little. Is 
he gone?” 

“Yes. Easy enough, wasn’t it?” 

“I didn’t think so. You got the letters?” 

“You bet I did.” 

“Where have you put them?” 

Harding wrinkled his forehead.—“Where I said I should 
—on the fire.” 

“But—I thought Mr. Woodhouse said we must keep them, 
because-” 

“Rina!” 

“What is it?” 

“You didn’t really believe that I would—oh, my poor 
darling!” 

“But, Hal—you did say-” 

“Diddums—ducky—then. I thought you knew. There 
wasn’t anyone at the other end of the wire.” 

Katrine’s headache vanished presto. 

“Hal!” 

“How could there have been? Florrie rang up and put 
Sainsby through while I was talking. I made sure you would 
tumble to it when the bell rang, even if you hadn’t before, 
because you know it doesn’t ring when the receiver is 
off.” 


132 


“ QUACK!” 


“But you had the receiver oil . . 

“Yes, but I held the support down, all the time, with my 
finger.” 

Harding was becoming knowledgeable as to the difference 
in kisses—he had had quite a few really nice ones since he 
married—but he had never had a nicer one than he received 
now. 

“Then—what has really happened? You said he was 
gone. Have you simply let him go after all?” 

“Not ‘simply.’ I got what I wanted.” 

“The letters?” 

“No, dear. Something more was necessary—at any rate 
advisable. I got a full confession and apology.” 

“How did you manage that?” 

“The telephone business did it. After you went out, I 
lay low and let the bluff soak in. I saw Snappy was think¬ 
ing as hard as he could. Presently he asked whether there 
was not some way of settling the matter. I said, no. He 
protested his innocence. I cut him short. After more chat, 
I said, in a grudging style, that if he confessed the truth, 
and was willing to put it on record, I might reconsider my 
next step. I didn’t promise anything, because it wouldn’t 
have done to seem on-coming. He jumped at the idea— 
offered to write out and sign whatever I chose to dictate. 
I told him it must be his own statement entirely, but if it 
was perfectly clear and satisfactory, I would let him go 
and put off the police by saying that there had been a mis¬ 
take. He took pains over the statement—it’s rather a work 
of art—and then I called up Mrs. Snaith and Dorothy and 
Florrie, and he said to them that there had been a regret¬ 
table misunderstanding between us, that in order to put an 
end to it he had written out a paper, and he wished them 


DAMWILY 


133 


to witness his signature. Also that he had composed the 
statement himself, without any suggestion or interference 
from me, and in doing so had acted of his own free will. I 
had dictated his speech, of course. And I took care the 
witnesses did not see anything he had written except his 
signature. They must have known there was trouble in the 
camp, so they haven’t learnt anything.” 

Katrine laughed chokily. “I said at the beginning of 
this wretched episode that I wished you were not so dam- 
wily. But I’m glad you are—oh, I am glad you are.” 

“By the way—I gave him a hint that I might have diffi¬ 
culty in permanently staving off a prosecution, so it would 
be as well if he left England. I bet you he’ll be in Paris 
tomorrow.” 

“Thank you, Hal—you have guessed now, haven’t you? 
He has been persecuting me for weeks, so skilfully that I 
couldn’t choke him off. I knew I ought to tell you, but I 
couldn’t bring myself to it, because it seemed as if it would 
imply that I doubted myself—doubted my love for you. 
For the same reason, I didn’t tell you when I gave orders to 
Florrie always to say I was not at home to him.” 

“Well,” remarked Harding meditatively, “there is one 
thing that never could happen in this world, and that is that 
I should doubt you.” 

She pressed his hand. 

“I will never do it again.”—Wisely, she did not explain 
why she would never do it again. No man ought to be 
allowed to know these things.—“I’ll never be chicken- 
hearted again, either. If you ever get another of my rela¬ 
tives into your power, mind ” she turned a vindictive 

thumb down on the counterpane. 

Harding laughed. “Bloodthirsty creature!” 


134 


“ QUACK ! ” 


“You played at being bloodthirsty. That was horrible 
about the vivisection. You frightened me.” 

“Oh! He gave me that. Didn’t you notice that he flur¬ 
ried and informed me he was not afraid of my threats? 
I hadn’t made any. That told me he was in a considerable 
funk, and I acted on the information.” 

“What would you have done if he had defied you?” 

“I never thought about it,” said man the practical. 

“But what would you have done?” demanded woman the 
curious. “Would you really have vivisected him?” 

“Vivisection is experimental, and I should not have used 
him as a subject. Between us we might have kept him still, 
held his head down, and one of us drawn the edge of a bis¬ 
toury across the back of his neck—light, so as not to scratch 
the skin. That would probably have sufficed. He might have 
died of fright, though. He was in the state when a man is 
liable to die if you touch him with a feather.” 

Katrine shivered. 

“I’m not really a bloodthirsty beast,” said Harding. “I 
never caused pain in my life that I could help. Only one 
thing bothered me. How did you know the letters weren’t 
locked up?” 

“In the same way as I knew that he hadn’t paid his bill. 
Don’t you remember?—Let’s have a bottle of champagne 
for dinner.” 


CHAPTER VI 


The Northeast Wind 

“Well, now, the question is, when can you come down?” 

Harding scanned his engagement list. “On Saturday 
afternoon, if that will suit you and Dr. Meakin.” 

“Perfectly. Meakin told me he would be at your dis¬ 
posal at any time. Mr. Fullar—would it be possible for 
you to bring your wife and stay over Sunday? I think she 
will remember me—I had the pleasure of meeting her sev¬ 
eral times before she married.” 

“I will ask her.” Harding took up the house-telephone. 
“Can you come down for a few minutes, Rina? Lord 
Mexley is here, and . . . Right you are.” He replaced the 
telephone. “She will be down in a moment. It is very 
kind of you to invite us. She may be of use. She has 
studied medicine.” 

“Indeed? I did not know that. Then she shares your 
work?” 

“I talk things over with her sometimes.” 

“Lucky man.” Lord Mexley breathed the words to 
himself. 

Katrine came in. They greeted each other. 

“Lord Mexley wants us to go down to Nethereaton on 
Saturday and stay until Monday. It is on account of his 
brother. You know, I suppose . . .” 

Katrine assented. She looked at the marquess. “How 
is Lord Ambrose?” 

The marquess shook his head sadly. “I hope you will 
135 


136 


“ QUACK ! ” 


come too, Mrs. Fullar. Your husband tells me that some¬ 
times your counsel is helpful.” 

“Then we will both come.” 

“I am very glad to hear it. I shall expect you in time 
for dinner.” 

They arrived after dinner, however: Harding had had to 
give up his Saturday afternoon. They were received by the 
major-domo, a stout man in a black silk coat with a ruffle 
at the breast, black silk breeches and stockings, and buckled 
shoes, flanked by two footmen in a livery of black and 
scarlet. The marquess came into the hall, and ushered his 
guests through the door he had left open into a ground- 
floor sitting-room small enough to be cosy in spite of the 
feel that betrayed a flagged floor under the felt and matting. 

A tall fine-looking woman of about thirty was sitting at 
an occasional table on which was a lace-making cushion. 
She was making lace. She rose. 

“This is Miss Cruden—the children’s inseparable com¬ 
panion while they are awake, and an invaluable friend and 
counsellor.” 

Katrine and Harding shook hands with Miss Cruden. 
She lifted her lace-table aside and drew another chair 
towards her own for Katrine. 

“You share your husband’s work, Lord Mexley tells me 
—you are a doctor too. I do hope you will be able to help 
us.” 

Miss Cruden was amazingly poised. She had the manner 
of a hostess without there being in it even a trace of assump¬ 
tion. Lord Mexley talked to Harding. The condition of 
agriculture ... the potato-blight . . . foot-and-mouth dis¬ 
ease—politely making conversation, the effort almost hid¬ 
den by tact. 


THE NORTHEAST WIND 


137 


A procession entered. First came the major-domo, and 
his dignity was more than the dignity of bishops. Next, a 
red-cheeked girl of fifteen or sixteen, in the costume of a 
Puritan maiden—a Quaker cap, a grey linen frock with a V 
at the neck and a tucker, and square-toed black shoes peeping 
from under the hem. Followed her a footman, carrying, 
on a tray, a silver basin and a napkin embroidered with a 
coat-of-arms. Next, another footman, with a three-handled 
chased silver ewer, the contents of which emitted a fragrant 
steam. Behind him came still another, bearing a silver tray 
whereon were five silver cups, smaller replicas of the ewer, 
and a chased silver dish with rusks. 

“The welcome cup,” said the marquess in a tone of 
apology. “It is an ancient custom at Nethereaton to offer it 
to guests. In the summer we have claret cup, but tonight 
being cold I suppose Purvis thought you would prefer the 
mulled sherry prescribed by tradition. You may notice a 
messy-looking brown object in it—a harmless piece of 
toast.” 

The major-domo had taken up his station—no other 
phrase would be adequate—before a table. The footmen 
had placed their burdens upon it, and placed themselves 
behind him, rigid as soldiers at attention. The girl waited 
demurely, standing between Purvis and the marquess. With 
the air of a priest performing a rite, Purvis raised the ewer 
and tipped a portion of its contents into each of the cups. 
Then he replaced it on the table. Katrine, watching, ex¬ 
pected him to take up the tray with the cups on it and offer 
it to her. Nothing of the kind. He took up one of the cups 
by two of its handles, and the girl, at a sign from him, 
picked up another in the same fashion and approached the 
marquess, who was answering a question of Harding’s about 


138 


“ QUACK ! ” 


the ewer—Harding was interested in old silver—and did 
not attend at the moment. The major-domo waited, looking 
at his lord, with the cup held at the level of his chin: his 
expression became slightly reproachful. The girl waited 
unreproachfully. The marquess became conscious that his 
attention was expected, and, turning to the girl, took the 
cup from her by the remaining handle and looked at Purvis. 
Purvis drank. The marquess looked at his guests, drank, 
and returned the cup to the girl, who took it back to the 
table and put it on the tray. Purvis also replaced his cup 
on the tray. The girl then took up one of the three other 
cups and presented it, with both hands, to Katrine. She did 
the same by Harding and Miss Cruden. Then, in obedience 
to another gesture of command from Purvis, she dipped her 
hands in the basin of water, and wiped them with the nap¬ 
kin. She picked up a rusk in her fingers, presented it to the 
marquess, and repeated the ceremony to the two guests and 
Miss Cruden. The procession then re-formed itself, and 
disappeared, except for one footman, who remained at 
attention. 

“Please tell,” begged Katrine. 

Lord Mexley’s thin, rather weary face lit up with a smile. 
“Quaint, isn’t it? These trivial old observances—one never 
knows whether one is a fool, or not, to keep them up. I 
am glad you did not laugh. Some people do. One can’t 
blame them—Purvis takes it so seriously. Well, in mediaeval 
days my predecessors—ruffians most of them—were almost 
kings of these parts. They emulated the sovereigns of those 
times in the arbitrariness of their behaviour, but some of 
them, like some of the real kings, enjoyed a joke. This 
house—or rather, an older house on this site, pulled down 
in the sixteenth century and replaced by the building in 


THE NORTHEAST WIND 


139 


which we are sitting—was not the residence of these ruf¬ 
fianly ancestors of mine. They lived at Thrans, seven miles 
away—the place has disappeared—and between Thrans and 
our river here was their chace—their hunting-ground. One 
of them, Geoffrey de Granterre, came to the river after sev¬ 
eral hours in the chace, and being hungry and thirsty 
crossed to Nethereaton to refresh at the expense of his 
vassal. The tenant came out and greeted him, and a serving- 
maid brought mulled wine in a silver cup with one handle. 
She held it by the handle as she presented it to Geoffrey. 
‘God’s death, lass,’ said he—excuse me, Mrs. Fullar, I repeat 
the traditional words—‘dost thou hold by the handle and 
expect thy lord to burn his fingers?’ For the cup, of course, 
was hot. The girl tried to change her hold and dropped 
it. Geoffrey was angry at having to wait while more wine 
was heated, and bade her bring ‘a manchet of bread.’ 
She brought it in her hand, and he roared with laughter. 
People actually roared when they laughed at that time, I 
believe: nowadays it is usually a figure of speech. ‘Christ’s 
bones, man,’ said he to his host, ‘ye have fair ways of serv¬ 
ing your guests at Nethereaton. The next time I come, let 
the cup have two handles. I will put up with the manner of 
serving bread, but see the wench’s hands be clean.’ So, the 
next time the old ruffian paid his vassal a call, out came the 
girl with a two-handled cup—but she held it out to him by 
both handles. Geoffrey roared again. ‘It must be three 
handles,’ he shouted to his terrified vassal. But he was 
pleased when the bread was brought by a man on a platter, 
and the girl washed her hands in his presence before pre¬ 
senting it to him. So, you see, it is not properly a custom 
of the family, but merely of the house we happen to live 
in, that has been inflicted on you.” 


140 “ QUACK ! ” 

“But why does the major-domo drink first—and then 
yourself? Were you drinking our healths?” 

“No. Purvis drinks first, and I look at him to make sure 
that he does, so that he may not try to poison me. And I 
drink before my guests for the same reason—to remove 
from their minds the suspicion that I may be trying to 
poison them.” Lord Mexley smiled again, in the same 
half-absent fashion as before. 

Dr. Meakin arrived. He and Harding went into the 
library to talk. When Harding returned, Katrine was 
seated at Miss Cruden’s lace-table, trying her hand. They 
were laughing in the most friendly way over Katrine’s in¬ 
ability to follow Miss Cruden’s directions, and the marquess 
was chaffing Miss Cruden because, as he said, the directions 
were far from clear. She responded in kind, and they had a 
little verbal duel: evidently, they were on excellent terms. 

Katrine presently retired, and Miss Cruden went with 
her. The weary look came back on Mexley’s face. He talked. 

“I suppose I must not ask what Meakin said to you—he 
probably spoke more frankly than he would to me.” 

“As to the condition?” 

“Yes—as to his general view of Ambrose’s chance. It is 
not very favourable, I fear.” 

“I cannot say that it is.” 

“Not favourable at all, perhaps?” 

“You need not give up hope yet, Lord Mexley.” 

“I am glad to hear you say so, especially as I infer that 
you are speaking from your own point of view rather than 
of Meakin’s. Well, Mr. Fullar, it rests with you. If you 
cannot help us, Ambrose will be in God’s hands.” 

Harding said nothing to that. 

“It seems strange to me. Here am I, perhaps to be left 


THE NORTHEAST WIND 


141 


alone. I have no idea at present what I shall do. I have 
gone on hoping that Ambrose would marry again.” The 
marquess sighed. “There are so many things to be con¬ 
sidered, and I have always been accustomed to rely on 
Ambrose.” 

“It is rare for brothers to remain such friends as I under¬ 
stand you and he have been.” 

“I believe it is, unhappily.” 

“They so often magnify their differences—elevate a diver¬ 
gency of view about some ordinary matter into a cause of 
cleavage. But I gather that you and your brother think 
pretty much alike about most things.” 

“We have had our differences. Ambrose dislikes innova¬ 
tions. For instance, he disapproved when I rebuilt a number 
of houses in the town. He did not say very much about that, 
because I was able to represent it as merely a matter of 
keeping up the property. But he was almost angry when I 
built a number of new houses, especially when he learned 
that although they were to be rented as cottages they con¬ 
tained bathrooms. He said, there was no need for addi¬ 
tional houses: if people could not find accommodation in 
the place, let them go elsewhere. And that cottagers had 
never had bathrooms; bathrooms were not necessary for 
such people. Well, you know, Mr. Fullar, I don’t agree. 
Really I don’t. The population of the town had grown. 
There was no getting over that. And I like my cottagers 
to be clean. The wash-tub in the kitchen may answer the 
purpose, but it must be inconvenient when there is a large 
family, and I am afraid not always quite decent.” 

“I agree with you.” 

“I am glad to hear you say so. Well, then, you know, 
there was the question of the town drainage scheme. My 


142 


“ QUACK ! ” 


father had been approached several times, and had always 
put his veto on it. I felt that it was impossible for me to 
take up the same attitude. Nethereaton was much the largest 
town in England without a drainage system, and, as you 
may remember, it had a bad name for epidemics, especially 
of diphtheria. I felt—I really did—that it was time some¬ 
thing was done. Ambrose was downright angry when he 
learned that I had given my support to the scheme. He 
wished me to go back on what I had said, and block it. I 
had to tell him I could not do that.” 

Harding made no comment. 

“But I am talking as if these matters were important. 
Of course, they are not. Ambrose’s dislike of change is 
merely an idiosyncrasy, Mr. Fullar—a speck on the sun. 
Perhaps I may be unduly partial, but what a brain he has! 
I know of no one who can so rapidly assimilate a quantity 
of facts and select just those which will answer his purpose. 
I have often thought that he would have made a great law¬ 
yer had he chosen to practise. He qualified for the bar, of 
course. His brilliancy as a young man was universally rec¬ 
ognised. And, really, I think it has remained undiminished. 
His last speech in the House of Commons, on the Divorce 
Laws Amendment Bill—wonderful! I don’t know what 
your views are, but even if they are totally opposed to his, 
I imagine you must have realised that his arguments were 
extraordinarily cogent—if you read it—did you?” 

“I have read it. He made out a strong case for leaving 
things as they are.” 

“Undoubtedly.” 

“How is it that he has never taken office?” 

“Well, you know, he feels indisposed to make the neces¬ 
sary concessions. Personally, I think it a pity. We have 


THE NORTHEAST WIND 


143 


not altogether agreed about that, again. I myself have 
taken office—I mention it because probably you are not 
aware of it—I did not distinguish myself in any way, unless 
it was by making blunders. Still, the Prime Minister 
pressed me, and I felt myself unable to refuse. Ambrose’s 
view was, how could I bring myself to be a member of the 
same Cabinet as Ferdinand Horshay, who openly advocates 
such measures as the equalisation of rates, and local land 
taxes? My reply was that neither of those measures was 
likely to come on the carpet, and if they did, I could record 
my dissent, and if necessary resign. We also differed 
about the responsibility of all members of a Cabinet for its 
foreign policy. I take the view that foreign policy is par¬ 
ticularly a question for the secretary and the Prime Min¬ 
ister. If anything had been done with which I strongly 
disagreed, of which I could not allow it to be supposed 
that I approved, then again, I should have resigned. Nat¬ 
urally. But I did not see that because Porchester’s view 
of the position in Persia was not quite my view I ought to 
refuse to work with him at all. If every member of a cabi¬ 
net adopted that line of conduct, how could any cabinet ever 
be constituted? As I said to Ambrose, there must be some 
give and take. Ambrose did not agree with me. I am 
afraid that even if Providence spares him to us, Mr. Fullar, 
he will never accept office. I cannot imagine him doing it, 
and if he did, I do not think that he would be in office long. 
He would fly off the handle at the first hint of disagreement.” 

The thin face, with its high forehead and high-bridged 
nose, the burning eyes and hollow temples, would have sug¬ 
gested that the patient might have been a mediaeval hermit 
but for the careful way in which his iron-grey hair had been 
brushed. He was a year younger than Harding, but he 


144 


“ QUACK ! ” 


might have been ten years older, at a glance. He had been 
called the Stormy Petrel of politics: perhaps it would have 
been more accurate to compare him to a northeast wind— 
the fierce, hard, dry wind that brings with it an overcast 
sky, and, wherever it finds smouldering embers, fans them 
to flame. 

He submitted to the necessary examination with the con¬ 
descension of indifference, as if it did not matter about 
doctors—as if they belonged to a species of upper servants. 

After luncheon, Harding said to Lord Mexley: 

“I hope you will not think that my wife and I are rude 
if we go for a walk together this afternoon? I want to 
discuss certain points of the case with her, and it can best 
be done during a tramp.” 

Lord Mexley looked at him sadly. “I envy you, Fullar, 
I do indeed.” 

They tramped for a mile in silence. Then Harding 
said: “It is an R.T. case, Rina.” 

Katrine sighed. “I feared so. His faculties are amaz¬ 
ingly alert, but the physical condition seemed to me very 
bad.”—She had not been present at the examination, but 
afterwards she had spent half an hour with the sick man. 

“I will state the case as I see it.” Harding stated it. 
“For practical purposes, the other men who have been called 
in said the same. They differed on details, and there are 
points on which I am not in accord with them. But 
for our purpose that is not important. As to the prognosis. 
He might recover on . . .” 

Followed a luminous exposure of a course of treatment 
nicely calculated to fit the case. 

“That is substantially what I shall suggest to Meakin if 
we decide not to give the R.T. It may save the patient: I 


THE NORTHEAST WIND 


145 


incline to think not, but there is a possibility. With the 
R.T. he would almost certainly recover.” 

“Completely?” 

“Yes, as far as I can tell. We must proceed on that 
assumption.—Now for his record. It is, in one way, so 
good that it could hardly be better. He is an upright, 
clean-living man against whom, as far as I know, there has 
never been any imputation of unworthiness in his private 
life. Born to wealth and high rank, he has not exploited 
either for his personal gratification. What use he has made 
of his wealth I don’t know, but certainly he has not wasted 
it in any kind of foolishness. Nor do I know anything 
about his married life, except that it lasted for five years, 
and that there were two children. Do you?” 

“Do I know about his marriage? He was attached to 
his wife, I think. I never heard anything to the contrary.” 

“Then we must suppose it was so. Left a widower, he 
has done all he could for his children—made a joint home 
with his brother and chosen an excellent companion for 
them. You agree with me there?” 

“As to Miss Cruden, yes. It would be impossible to find 
anyone better. Both the girls are extremely fond of her, 
and I am sure her influence is good.” 

“Yes. There is a possible point in connection with her 
which I will take later. You probably know what I mean.” 

“I think I do.” 

“Now as to the other side of the record. Many people 
would say it was equally good. Lord Ambrose has devoted 
himself to public matters without any selfish aim. He 
probably has the average man’s desire to shine, and he is 
so clever that he may be pardoned if in him it takes a 
somewhat extreme form. I think it does.” 


146 


“ QUACK ! ” 


“So do I.” 

“But after all, that is only natural. The rub comes in 
regard to the use he makes of his cleverness. It appears to 
be entirely governed by his temperament. Someone said 
lately of some lawyer, that his intellect worked in a vacuum. 
Lord Ambrose’s intellect works only in the turbid pool of his 
prejudices. To begin with, he is opposed to any and every 
kind of change.” 

“Is that fair to him?” 

Harding told her part of what Mexley had said. “I had 
inferred as much from reading those speeches and articles 
Dorothy collected, and his two books. He is too clever to 
say so outright: he always makes a plausible case against 
the particular innovation he is opposing; but his funda¬ 
mental dislike of change leaks out between the lines.” 

“There are many people who share that feeling.” 

“Yes, but they are not so rigidly limited as he is, nor so 
stubbornly obstinate. Even the most crusted of Tory squires 
sometimes sees that a thing can’t go on for ever—as Mexley 
with his bathrooms. No able-minded man can bring his 
brains to bear on the state of things in the England of today 
and conclude that everything is arranged for the best. But 
that is, virtually, the position Lord Ambrose takes up. 
The explanation must be that, changes being distasteful 
to him, he does not let his intellect work on the question 
of how far they may be necessary.” 

“Yes. Go on.” 

“Next, as to his method of defending existing positions. 
This is the most serious count in the indictment as I see it. 
Wherever there is an old hatred, Lord Ambrose Sanborough 
may be trusted to keep it alive. Wherever irreconcilability 
has begun to show signs of yielding to time, Lord Ambrose 


THE NORTHEAST WIND 


147 


Sanborough appears in the field to reinforce it. A few 
years ago there was a noticeable tendency in Ireland for the 
two parties to come together. On the Nationalist side you 
had Catholics saying that the sturdiness of character of the 
Ulstermen would be indispensable to Ireland under Home 
Rule, while leading Protestants proclaimed themselves Home 
Rulers. It looked as though the age-old quarrel might be 
made up. Why should any reasonable Briton object, as 
long as British interests are safeguarded? But up rose Lord 
Ambrose Sanborough and preached a crusade against Catho¬ 
lic Ireland. He worked on the Tory party in Great Britain. 
He went over to Ulster and not only whipped into frenzy 
the old enmity of the Orangeman for the Catholic, but 
angered the Catholics. Did you read those abominable 
attacks on the Irish clergy and the Catholic hierarchy? They 
were not intended merely to tickle the Orangemen, they were 
phrased in a way to goad the other people to madness.” 

“I wonder if he really meant to do that.” 

“I don’t think there can be any doubt of it. I will give 
another instance. Do you remember the attitude he adopted 
in the controversy over the last Education Bill? When it 
was introduced there were a number of people on both sides 
who seemed to think it might be hammered into a shape 
they could accept. Of course, each party wanted the other 
to make all the concessions: that is invariably the case. 
But there was a general disposition to accept the bill pro¬ 
visionally as a basis for discussion, and, to the outsider, 
it seemed that at last these wretched differences might be 
composed. But no. Lord Ambrose Sanborough would 
have none of it. He carried the fiery cross into every 
country parsonage, and he did not content himself with 
the usual stuff about the schools being in danger, and the 


148 


“ QUACK ! ” 


church being in danger, and England being in danger. He 
attacked the Nonconformists. He said at Ackersfield that 
this endeavour to suppress religious teaching in the schools 
was engineered by atheists, that it was really an attempt to 
undermine the Christian religion. You know, Rina, that is 
nonsense. Dr. Clifford is probably as good a Christian as 
Lord Ambrose, and Lord Ambrose must be aware of it.” 

“Do you mean that he is not sincere in these crusades of 
his?” 

“No. I only mean that he is wilfully malicious in what 
he says in support of them. Another instance was in regard 
to the Divorce Law Reform League, and the bill they caused 
to be introduced last session. Mexley referred last night to 
Lord Ambrose’s speech in the House. He expected me to 
admire it. I hardly knew what to say. Half of it was all 
right enough from the view-point of those who think that to 
alter the law is to tamper with a sacrament: but the other 
half was disgraceful. He said that those who had initiated 
the movement were seeking to make immorality easy, and 
insinuated that they were concerned for themselves, that 
they were people who desired to take advantage of a facility 
of divorce. That isn’t true of one of them, at least. There 
is no better-living man in England than Nick Fowder. 
You know that.” 

“Do you think Lord Ambrose meant to refer to Dr. 
Fowder specially?” 

“He referred to the promoters of the movement, and Nick 
is one of them, and the principal one in the public eye. 
Nick’s view is that the law as it stands forces many people 
into irregular unions who would be glad to regularise their 
position if they could. He may be right or wrong. He is a 
bit of a faddist about sex matters, certainly. But, whether 


THE NORTHEAST WIND 


149 


he goes too far or not, no one has the right to say that Nick 
wants to lead an immoral life. Good Lord! Nick! He is 
absolutely wrapped up in his wife and kids.” 

“Yes. He is a delightful person. But isn’t this con¬ 
troversial method of Lord Ambrose’s common to poli¬ 
ticians? Mud-slinging is a stock weapon at election times.” 

“He throws vitriol. Also, he doesn’t fall to the tempta¬ 
tion to hit below the belt for the reason that most men do— 
becatise they lose their heads in the course of a strenuous 
battle. He does it in cold blood, calculatingly. I happen 
to know that, because Abershaw—Penny’s father-in-law— 
is a great admirer of his, and told me once, when I met him 
at Penny’s place, how carefully Lord Ambrose planned his 
verbal outrages beforehand. He weighs every word.” 

“I think you have made your point.” 

“Right. Now you go on.” 

Katrine was silent. Harding looked at her, and saw that 
she was gathering her forces. This trick of hers seemed to 
him a mental form of what a horse does as he approaches 
a jump—or should do. 

“Lord Ambrose is, as you say, in many ways an exem¬ 
plary person. But he was not born to wealth, and has never 
been a rich man. He has enough to live upon in the way 
in which he thinks it necessary for him to live, but no more.” 

“How do you know that?” 

“Miss Cruden told me.” 

Harding was surprised. “But Mexley is wealthy, isn’t 
he?” 

“Very.” 

“Won’t he give Ambrose a reasonable share? He seems 
almost to worship him.” 

“He would give Ambrose anything if Ambrose would 


150 “ QUACK ! ” 

take it; but Ambrose only takes what is customary in the 
family for the second son. He will not even allow Mexley 
to make it up to what is usual for the heir.” 

“Extraordinary.” 

After a pause Katrine said: “There is another side to it, 
Harry.” 

“You mean that it is only a part of his conservatism?” 

“No—in connection with the possibilities.” 

“Oh. Yes. But let’s finish with the record first.” 

“Also, I am sorry to say, you are not quite right about the 
way in which he has fulfilled his duties as a father. The 
children hardly know him.” 

“Is that so? But he lives here—I mean, this is his home 
when he isn’t in London.” 

“Only in the sense that he has no other. He lives on the 
wing—he is here and there, staying in this country house or 
that, for three-quarters of the year, and in the summer he 
goes away for a tour. He does not take the girls.” 

“He can’t, very well, unless he takes Miss Cruden, and 
that would hardly do.” 

“Why not—if they were to go where they are known, and 
people know them—Scotland—Wales—Yorkshire? Mexley 
has places in all three, and they are just as much Lord 
Ambrose’s as his for that purpose. Mexley and Miss Cruden 
and the children do stay at one or other of them, every 
summer.” 

“Do they?” Harding was thoughtful. 

“Certainly they do. And if Mexley can live with Miss 
Cruden and the children, Lord Ambrose could. No one 
would suppose that there was anything improper in it. If 
it comes to that, scandalmongers would be more likely to 
make a story out of Mexley and Miss Cruden, because, after 


THE NORTHEAST WIND 


151 


all, Lord Ambrose is the children’s father, and Mexley isn’t.” 

“You are probably right.” 

“Now I want to say something about the public side. 
Isn’t there a certain value in the kind of conservatism Lord 
Ambrose stands for? Doesn’t it serve as a check on re¬ 
formers in a hurry?” 

“Undoubtedly. But there are plenty of people to stand 
out against reforms until the last moment. The point is 
that he envenoms everything he touches.” 

“Do you think that on balance he has done more harm 
than good?” 

Harding reflected. “I don’t see that he has done any 
good—that is, any over and above what has been done by 
others concurrently. What he has achieved alone has been 
purely mischievous, as far as I can judge.” 

“Well. That is all I have to say on the record.” 

Harding summed up. “Lord Ambrose is an exceedingly 
clever man, lacking constructive instincts, and debarred by 
an inherited tradition from doing the sort of mental-house- 
breaker’s work that Bernard Shaw does. The only outlet 
he has found for his energies in public life is to make 
mischief. In private life his record is stainless but not 
specially good, presumably because he has given so much 
of his time and energy to public matters.” 

“Agreed.” 

Harding did not begin afresh for a minute or two. Then 
he said: “I think it will shorten the discussion if, in regard 
to the possibilities, we take the public aspect first. If we 
save him, what is Lord Ambrose likely to do in the future? 
I see no reason to suppose that he will do otherwise than 
he has done in the past.” 

“Don’t you think responsibility might steady him?” 


152 


“ QUACK ! ” 


“The responsibility of office? He won’t submit to it.” 
Harding related the other part of his conversation with 
Mexley the night before. “If his own brother says that he 
won’t work with anybody, what presumption is there that he 
will do anything useful? I see none. But I see grounds 
for supposing that he might do a great deal of harm. In 
Ireland the situation has drifted from bad to worse, and 
looks like ending in civil war. Suppose another effort is 
made to bridge the gulf, as will almost certainly be the 
case: to give Lord Ambrose another lease of life may mean 
that it will fail when otherwise it might succeed—for, we 
must take it that if he is alive he will prevent a reconcilia¬ 
tion if he can. Then, hundreds of men may lose their lives 
because we prolonged his.” 

“Are you not going rather far afield?” 

“I only want to illustrate the possible extent of the mis¬ 
chief which his political methods may cause. Actually, I 
see no limit to it.” 

“I will grant that, for the purpose.” 

“Also, we must take into consideration the possibility 
that he might succeed to the marquisate. From what you 
say, it appears that he has not disposed of sufficient funds to 
finance these campaigns of his himself. Mexley may have 
done it for him-” 

“I don’t think so. He may have subscribed to a certain 
extent, but from what Miss Cruden said, Lord Mexley’s 
admiration for his brother does not extend to sharing his 
more extreme views: what Mexley said to you confirms 
that.” 

“To some extent. Then we must allow for the possibility 
that Lord Ambrose’s power to do mischief might be in¬ 
creased.” 



THE NORTHEAST WIND 


153 


“Enormously increased. He would probably dispose of 
an income of nearly a hundred thousand a year.” 

“Any more to say about the possibilities if we give him 
the R.T.?” 

“No.” 

“Suppose we don’t. As to public matters, a danger-spout 
removed. But, on the personal side, it goes against the 
grain with me to let him go—not that he attracted me 
personally—he was barely civil—but because he is, at the 
lowest estimate, an averagely decent fellow. We must face 
it. What are the possibilities?” 

“About the children?” 

“Yes, first.” 

“For most purposes, Lord Mexley acts as if he were their 
father now. They look upon him as if he were. They are 
far more attached to him than to their real father.” 

“You don’t think that they would feel the loss much?” 

“I don’t think they would feel it at all. They might cry 
for five minutes.” 

“And in the future—would they suffer because he was 
gone—as far as we can tell?” 

Katrine looked at Harding. Harding looked at Katrine. 

“You sat up talking with Lord Miexley last night,” she 
observed non-committally. 

“What did you do?” 

She was caught. “I sat up talking with Miss Cruden,” 
she confessed. 

“Well?” 

“Play fair.” 

Harding laughed. “I have an idea that Mexley would 
marry Miss Cruden.” 

Katrine said nothing. 


154 “ QUACK ! ” 

“It’s your turn, partner.” 

“Does he know?” 

“Does he know what?” 

“Owl!” said Katrine. “Does he know, that if his brother 
does not live, he, Lord Mexley, will, after a decent interval, 
propose to make Miss Cruden the children’s mother?” 

“He would need an Act of Parliament to do that.” 

“Be serious, Harry.” 

“Yes.—I can’t tell you. He only said that he did not 
know what he would do, that there were many things to be 
considered.” 

“That means he does know.” 

“Well—you don’t advance matters. Would she marry 
him?” 

“Would she? What should she be doing in the house 
if she wouldn’t?” 

“Looking after the children.” 

“Pah!” said Katrine. 

“Oughtn’t it to have been miaouw?” 

“No. I wasn’t being catty. It’s all right. They are both 
perfect dears, and high-minded people as well. Miss Cru¬ 
den would not lift a finger to bring Lord Mexley to her side 
unless he showed signs of falling a prey to some other 
woman. If that happened, she would fight. But she isn’t 
much afraid of it. He was engaged at one time to Lady 
Blanche Birscough. The engagement had to be broken off 
because she became tubercular: she went to Davos, and died 
there. He has never forgotten her. As long as there was a 
chance that Ambrose might marry again, and have a son, 
Mexley was content to wear the willow. But it will be all 
right if—if Lord Ambrose does not get over this illness.” 

“Did Miss Cruden tell you all this?” wondered Harding. 


THE NORTHEAST WIND 


155 


“She did not tell me any of it, except about Lady 
Blanche.” 

“Then how do you know?” 

“Dame Nature provided us both with eyes, Mr. Wiseman. 
I’ve not used mine exclusively for peering into microscopes.” 

Harding laughed. His face became grave again. “Then 
there is a fair prospect that the children might gain rather 
than lose.” 

“Quite. And have a baby cousin to play with, so that 
incidentally the title would not become extinct.” 

“I think nothing of that.” 

“Oh, Hal! That dear man and his evident pride in the 
welcome-cup business—it was clear that while he was telling 
the story he was thinking in the back of his mind: ‘And 
I may be the last.’ That was why I wasn’t sure that he 
knew his intentions as to Miss Cruden.” 

“Katrine! You had not been in the house five minutes.” 

“What has that to do with it?” 

“Do you mean to say-” 

“My dear man, you told me once that you ate six oranges 
a day for three months, while you were at college, in order 
to find out whether oranges agreed with you or not-” 

“Whether they caused an increase of energy. It was a 
badly-conceived experiment, because-” 

“Never mind that now.—I don’t agree that the question of 
the title is unimportant. Taking the Sanboroughs all round, 
they have been a credit to the country, and the family idea 
does help to keep young men straight, although it is not 
always strong enough to do so entirely.” 

They had been walking for two hours, and were coming 
back towards Nethereaton by a footpath. It led through a 
wood. 


156 “ QUACK ! ” 

“We must make up our minds,” said Harding soberly. 
“Do we prolong a life which may be injurious and does not 
seem likely to be beneficial, or do we give Mexley and Miss 
Cruden a chance? I think, the latter.” 

The short winter day was drawing to a close. It was 
already twilight under the trees. In the semi-darkness 
Katrine looked at her husband with fearful eyes. 


CHAPTER VII 


A Quicksand Woman 

“Rina —didn’t you tell me once that Adrienne Schorn 
used to be a friend of yours?” 

“I did not”—on the tone-level that served Katrine for 
emphasis. “Irma Schorn and I were friendly for years, but 
with Adrienne I had nothing in common.” 

“But you knew her, I suppose?” 

“Everyone knows her.” 

“What sort of a woman is she?” 

“Your eyes ought to have told you that.” 

“I’ve never seen her.” 

“Harding, where have you lived all these years?” 

“In London, Katrine. But, as you know, I’m not keen 
on theatres. I hate the fuggy atmosphere.” 

“Apart from her theatrical adventures, I should have 
thought you must have come across her. She lives in the 
limelight.” 

“But I don’t,” retorted Harding. He had to make an 
effort not to betray annoyance, although he would have 
found it hard to say what annoyed him. 

“Irma was a dear,” remarked Katrine. “She and I-” 

“I’m not interested in Irma, and at the present moment I 
am not interested even in you as much as I am in Adrienne 
Schorn.” 

“Harding!” 

“That’s the second time you’ve called me Harding. What 
have I done?” 


157 


158 


“ QUACK ! ” 


It was an established usage, with them as with other 
married couples, that the use of formal Christian names 
indicated that all was not “well as well”—to quote Katrine. 

She did not answer his question. She was embroidering, 
and put in three stitches very deliberately. She bent her 
head lower . . . 

Harding saw a tear fall on her work. It irritated him: 
he was ashamed of his irritation. 

“My darling! what is the matter? Have I done any¬ 
thing to vex you?” 

Katrine wept. 

“But, dearest! As far as I know I’m guiltless as the 
fictional babe. Do—do please tell me-” 

“If you are more interested in Adrienne Schorn than you 
are in me-” 

“Good heavens! I’ve never even set eyes on the woman.” 

“Then”—Katrine made an effort to get back to her normal 
utterance—“why did you say so?” 

“Because I am going to see her in the morning.” 

“Oh. Did she send for you?” 

“Pryce-Harris did. He is attending her.” 

For a reason which he could not have defined, Harding 
did not say that Pryce-Harris could not be present. He 
had requested Harding to waive formality and go alone. 

“Come now, old girl—buck up and be yourself.” 

Katrine bucked up. “What is it you want to know?” 

“I want to know what her disposition is.” 

“She was the first bachelor-girl, in the worst sense of the 
phrase, which I believe she invented. It has come to mean 
something better since: in her case it meant that she refused 
to submit to any of the restraints which girls usually sub¬ 
mit to. After she was seventeen she had her own friends, 




A QUICKSAND WOM^N 


159 


kept what hours she pleased when in London, and went 
visiting where she liked the rest of the year. When she was 
nineteen she persuaded her father to fit up part of their 
house in Grosvenor Square as a flat for her, large luxurious 
flats not being obtainable then as they are now. She lived 
in it exactly as if she had been entirely on her own; Irma, 
living in the same house, did not see her sometimes for 
weeks, although her friends were admitted. Her looks, and 
her audacity, made her the darling of the smart set: she 
spent so much, and lost so much in gambling, that I believe 
Burford was thankful when the Seton Priory scandal com¬ 
pelled her to keep quiet for a time.” 

“Lord Burford being her father?” 

“Goodness, yes. She went into retreat, in a convent in 
Italy, and made people believe that she intended to take the 
veil. A photograph of her was published in novice’s dress; 
she disclaimed having authorised publication, and that she 
intended to take the veil. Soon after, she came back to 
England, to find herself cold-shouldered by all except the 
more disreputable of her friends, but a popular heroine: 
some journalist had made up a story out of the evidence in 
court as to what happened at Seton Priory—the men had 
all tried to exonerate her—and her photograph in nun’s 
costume, according to which she had been an innocent 
victim, and had intended to take the veil in order to expiate 
her disgrace, but drew back at the last moment because she 
had conscientious scruples. This farrago appeared in a 
Sunday paper, and became widely current: no one could 
contradict it except herself, and she was too clever to do 
so. She came across Harper Fratton—probably she knew 
him before: he offered her the part of leading lady in his 
forthcoming production at the Imperial Theatre, and she 


160 


“QUACK !” 


accepted. She is, in a sense, a natural actress, and had 
frequently played in amateur performances: with the addi¬ 
tional advantage of her temporary celebrity, her success was 
immense. She then ceased to live with her family, and I 
know nothing about her except what everybody knows, 
because Irma went to Australia, and when she has been 
over she has not mentioned Adrienne.” 

“That doesn’t help me much. As to the way she be¬ 
haved when you knew her—did it strike you that she was 
abnormal in any way?” 

“I cannot imagine a girl behaving so who was not.” 

“In what respect was she abnormal?” 

“Morally.” 

“I don’t mean that, Rina. We are not consulting. Did 
it seem to you that she was abnormal physically? I take it, 
she was one of those people who are always on the go?— 
Was that merely temperamental, or was it due to a physical 
condition?” 

“Temperamental, I should say.” 

“It never struck you in those days that her excitability 
might be due to a derangement of the nervous system?” 

“No. I do not think she was excitable in that sense: 
she sought excitement because it was the fashion to do so. 
If it had been the fashion to sit alone reading hymns, she 
would have done that with equal gusto.” 

“Then, in ordinary social intercourse—which I suppose 
was all you had with her?—did she behave like anybody 
else?” 

“Except that she was impudent.” 

“Physically. Were there any signs of athetosis—twitch¬ 
ing movements of the hands and feet, tremors—anything of 
the kind?” 


A QUICKSAND WOMAN 


161 


“I never noticed it.” 

“Do you think you would have done, if there had been?” 

“Yes. I am almost sure I should.” 

“Did her sister ever hint to you that she was neurotic?” 

Katrine reflected. “I have heard the word applied to 
her, but not by Irma, as far as I remember. I think it was 
grandfather who used it, or Lewis Alaten—perhaps both.” 

“What I am trying to get at is—is there any reason to 
think that her nerves did not function normally?” 

“None whatever, as far as I know. She was always cool 
and perfectly in control of herself.” 

“Did you ever hear of her being ill?” 

“She used to remain in her own rooms when she had 
nothing particular to do, and if she did not wish to be 
bothered, to say she was ill. Irma regarded it as a mere 
excuse. I think she had proof that as a rule it was.” 

“ You said that since she went on the stage you know 
nothing about her except what everybody knows. What 
does everybody know?” 

“That she has appeared at various theatres in London— 
and, I believe, toured, to a certain extent—she went to 
America, anyhow—been married twice, and been the co¬ 
respondent in a divorce case.” 

“Is she married now?” 

“I cannot tell you. 'Her second husband was a Brazilian; 
she married him in Paris. A year afterwards he divorced 
her, according to French law, on the ground of the evidence 
in the Ras Cass case. She applied to the courts here to have 
the marriage which had taken place at the British Consulate 
annulled also, and failed, on legal grounds.” 

“Hm. Is that all you can tell me about her?” 

Katrine embroidered. Harding looked at her. 


162 “ QUACK ! ” 


“It is all I know.” 

“Does that mean that you have heard things and dis¬ 
believe them?” 

“I cannot say that I disbelieve them.” 

“What were they?” 

“Chiefly, that she has had numerous love affairs.” 
“With-?” 

“Actors she has played opposite to, in theatrical parlance, 
and other well-known men. I would rather not mention 
names.” 

“Is she a man-eater?” 

Katrine embroidered. 

“Rina, I wish you’d help me.” 

“I have been endeavouring to do so. As to your last 
question, it answers itself.” 

“I don’t agree. Women get themselves into trouble, or 
get themselves talked about, who are less the eaters than 
the eaten.” 

Her conscience gave Katrine a prick.—“They may do so 
once. But I don’t think even once could be urged in her 
case. She would always know exactly what she was doing, 
and whither it would lead.” 

“If you are right, the condition is a dangerous one.” 

“Don’t you dare give her the reserved treatment,” rose to 
Katrine’s lips. She conquered the impulse to say it, and 
said instead: “I am sorry to hear that”—exactly as if she 
were not. 

“Pryce-Harris has been calling it neurasthenia,” went on 
Harding, blind to danger signals. “The fundamental state, 
as I see the indications, is one of hyperthyroidism, although 
according to him the two most easily recognisable symptoms 
of Graves’ disease, proptosis and exophthalmia, are not 



A QUICKSAND WOMAN 


163 


present: but the one invariable symptom, tachycardia, is, 
and two frequent ones, polypnoea and hyperidosis. I have 
very little doubt about the cause of the neurasthenic con¬ 
dition now.” 

Katrine tried to play up. “Pryce-Harris isn’t much of a 
nerve-specialist, is he?” 

“He is like most of them. They call everything they 
can’t diagnose neurasthenia, just as g.p.s call every kind of 
minor feverish attack influenza.” Ashamed of his previous 
lack of candour, Harding added: “He isn’t meeting me 
tomorrow. We could not fix an hour that suited both of 
us.” 

Katrine put down her work and gave battle. 

“Harding, I can’t bear the thought of your going into 
that woman’s bedroom and being alone with her-” 

“My darling! There will be the nurse. And she is very, 
very ill.” 

Katrine sighed. Harding argued against the sigh—men 
do. They will have the last word. 

“I can’t afford to refuse patients right and left because 
they have not been all they should be.” 

“No, of course you can’t. But I don’t ask that.” 

“What do you ask, then?” 

Katrine tried again, and put all the love she could into 
her face as she looked at him and said: 

“Don’t take Adrienne Schorn as a patient. I will never 
ask you to make another exception.” 

“I have promised to see her tomorrow morning.” 

“Put it off. Tell Pryce-Harris you find you are too busy 
to take another outside patient. You are.” 

“That would not be fair to her.” 

“She won’t die all in a minute.” 


164 “ QUACK ! ” 

“Are you afraid that I shall fall a victim to this lady 
with the goo-goo eyes?” 

“How do you know she has goo-goo eyes? I thought you 
had never seen her.” 

“I saw a photograph of her in an illustrated weekly.” 
There was a snap in Harding's tone. He had been irritated 
by Katrine’s manner. He had been irritated by her tears. 
What had she to cry for? He did not know that she had 
anything to cry for. Therefore, evidently, she had nothing 
to cry for. She was crying again now. If not, why did she 
get up silently, and, keeping her face averted, leave him? 

A tall woman—so tall that, as she sat propped upright 
by almost innumerable elaborately-decorated black cushions, 
her shoulders were on a level with the top of the high head- 
board of the lacquered Chinese bed. A beauty—a wasted 
and disfigured beauty now, but still a beauty. Her large 
dark eyes, burning in cavernous sockets, contemplated 
Harding as he entered the room. 

“So you are Petruchio.—You need not wait, nurse. The 
doctor will ring if he needs you.—How do you do, 
Petruchio?” 

“My name is Fullar.” 

“I used to know your wife,” remarked the Hon. Adrienne 
Schorn with apparent irrelevance. “How is she?” 

“Quite well.—Lie down, please.” 

Adrienne Schorn slipped nervously into a half-reclining 
position. Without ceremony, Harding began to take away 
the cushions. “I want you to lie flat.” 

The lady found herself lying flat. She gazed upwards 
with curious eyes. 

“Look at the foot of the bed.” 

“Why, Mr. Fullar? What are you going to do to me?” 


A QUICKSAND WOMAN 


165 


“Look at the foot of the bed, and don’t argue.” She obeyed. 
He watched her eyes. Then he placed firm hands on her neck. 

Before his arrival he had made up his mind not to stand 
any nonsense. The ground of Katrine’s evident dislike for 
Miss Schorn was a reason for caution. He wasn’t a doctor, 
and the son of a doctor, for nothing. He had heard stories: 
at his father’s dinner-table when the girls had retired, and 
the men were left to their wine and nuts: while he was a 
student, and while he was in hospital. He remembered the 
advice of Sandy, a drunken Scot who lived in tumbledown 
New Inn, whose patients mostly came from the Strand, and 
whose maxims about practice, when his tongue had been 
loosened with whisky, were a tradition with the young 
scrapegraces of King’s College. “Laddies remember ye must 
always tak’ what’s offered ye or always leave it. There’s 
na via media in the via femina. Mony’s the clever laddie 
I’ve seen slip awa’ oot o’ th’ road to his F.R.C.P. by for- 
gettin’ that.” 

When he had finished his examination, he said abruptly: 
“You will be perfectly well in three months if you do as I 
tell you.” He proceeded to tell Miss Schorn exactly what 
she was to do. 

“I can’t do without meat. I don’t object about the green 
vegetables so much, but meat I must have.” 

“Then you must have another doctor. I can’t help you.” 

“I am always hungry as it is, and Dr. Pryce-Harris said 
I might have meat once a day.” 

“Very well. Good morning.” 

“No, Mir. Fullar, please don’t go. Is it really necessary 
to do all those troublesome things?” 

“Of course it is. Should I tell you to do them if it 
were not?” 


166 “ QUACK ! ” 

“Very well. I will do as you say. Dr. Pryce-Harris has 
not done me any good.” 

“Yes, he has. He has kept you going until the true cause 
of your condition declared itself. Then, he did the best 
thing for you a neurologist could do—called in someone 
who does not know half as much about the nervous system as 
he does, but happens to know something about the rather 
obscure trouble which has deranged yours. You must not 
find fault with Dr. Pryce-Harris or me. You must trust us, 
for three months. He will see you occasionally in order to 
verify the improvement as to the nerves. The rest will be 
my affair. But, mind—you must follow the treatment 
rigidly. No breaking rules on the pretext that it doesn’t 
matter just for once. Unless you do exactly as I say, I 
shall leave you to your fate. I have no time to waste on 
people who won’t cooperate with the doctor.—Where is 
that nurse?” 

“If you would be so kind as to ring, Mr. Fullar, she will 
be here in one moment.” 

“She ought to be here now. She ought to have stayed 
in the room. I can’t afford to wait for nurses.” 

Never had Adrienne Schorn been spoken to in that way. 

As he was driven away from the house he plumed him¬ 
self on the success of his tactics: he had left in it an 
incarnation of meekness. Before he reached the next case, 
self-gratulation was banished by the foreboding of a 
difficult hour. He had virtually promised the reserved 
treatment to the patient, without consulting Katrine; he felt 
sure that she would object, and then he would have to justify 
his view in a full and frank discussion. Could he do 
that? 

He constructed his case like a lawyer. Miss Schorn 


A QUICKSAND WOMAN 


167 


was perhaps not an estimable person according to the con¬ 
ventional standard, but—and again but, and still again. 
The buts were so convincingly favourable that he dismissed 
his doubts—and then, when evening came, and he recollected 
that Penny and her husband were coming to dinner, felt 
greatly relieved. The discussion would have to be post¬ 
poned. And when, after they had gone, the moment came 
for it, the buts which had seemed unanswerable lost all 
their force before they were uttered. He was assailed by 
the temptation to give Miss Schorn the reserved treatment 
without saying anything about it. 

He struggled with himself. He had laid down the con¬ 
ditions of the experiment, and to violate them would have 
been a break with a life-rule. Habit won, but none the less 
he credited the victory to his sense of honour. 

Katrine stopped him at the fourth word—which was 
“Schorn.” 

“If you are intending to consult me as to whether she 
should have the benefit of the reserved treatment, it is useless 
to do so. If you think she ought to have it, give it to 
her.” 

“I do think she ought to have it, but I should like to hear 
what you have to say.” 

“I cannot discuss the question, because to me it does not 
admit of discussion. If you don’t agree, I cannot make you 
do so, and you could never make me think otherwise. There¬ 
fore, talk is a waste of time. Give her the treatment.” 

Harding felt justifiably aggrieved, which is annoying, 
whereas being unjustifiably aggrieved is satisfying. Katrine 
ought not to allow her personal dislikes to interfere with 
professional matters. She was so unreasonable in this 
instance that it tempted one to think her dislike might he 


168 


44 QUACK ! ” 


ill-founded. It was possible that Miss Schorn’s youthful 
follies had been partly due to her father’s inability to control 
her, and her later misfortunes might not have been alto¬ 
gether her own fault. 

Adrienne Schorn was a model patient in every respect but 
one—in every respect including the most important one, 
many medical men would think: she wanted to see her 
doctor often. After some time it dawned on Harding that 
this might be purposeful. 

44 What do you want me for now?” he demanded one 
day as he came into her sitting-room. 

44 I want to see my miracle-worker.” 

44 I have no time to waste on you.” 

She was reclining on a chaise longue, attired in a mar¬ 
vellous kimono that left her bosom half-veiled by capti- 
vatingly loose laces, a very different woman from the ashen, 
nearly extinct volcano that had greeted Harding imperti¬ 
nently nearly three months before—different not merely in 
the filling cheeks, the lissomeness-regaining figure, and the 
reddening lips—a natural red. (Not for her life dare she 
put on lip-salve when her Miracle-Worker was coming.— 
She had tried it once. 44 Rub that stuff off your lips,” was 
his curt order the moment he saw her. “How do you 
expect me to judge of your state of health if you plaster 
the signs over with cosmetics?” and he had fumed until 
she had finished scrubbing her lips with a towel.) Her 
manner was light and friendly. The capriciousness of the 
spoilt beauty had given place to humility. They were the 
same eyes which she raised to meet his, but now they filled 
with tears. 

44 What’s the matter?” 

“Miracle-Worker, why are you so unkind to me?” 


A QUICKSAND WOMAN 169 

Harding was taken aback. But he adhered to his line of 
behaviour. 

“That’s nothing to cry about. It doesn’t matter a ha’porth 
of cheese to you whether I am kind or not.” 

“Indeed it does. You are not unkind to your other 
patients. Many people have praised you in my hearing for 
your gentleness, and when I tell them how roughly you 
treat me, they can hardly believe it.” 

The attack was shrewd. Harding knew that he was not 
usually curt, as he had been with her. 

“Well, stop crying.” He took the sphygmograph out of 
its case. 

“You don’t need to see me again for a fortnight,” was his 
conclusion. 

“Oh, but I must!” 

“Why?” 

“I want to begin to do things. How can I tell whether I 
may do something, or not, unless I ask you?” 

“You can telephone.” 

“You would have to see me just the same. Today, for 
instance—I wanted to know whether I might go out a little 
now. You would not have consented to that until you had 
seen me and made sure—now would you?” 

No, he would not have sanctioned anything of the kind by 
telephone. He admitted that, to himself. 

Something went wrong in the atmosphere at Cadogan 
Gardens. It was in no way to be attributed to him. He was 
careful to behave in just the same way as he had always 
done. He went whistling about the house, hummed, and was 
merry and bright with Katrine, chaffed Dorothy, and gen¬ 
erally felt that he was proving himself to be in the top of 
his form. But everywhere, as it seemed, he was confronted 


170 


“QUACK!” 


by a change. Gloom—sulks—tightened lips—the last from 
Dorothy. It could not be helped that he was exceptionally 
busy just then. He had several new outside patients whose 
cases required special attention. He had also—as it hap¬ 
pened—various functions to attend. No one can prevent 
things cropping up. 

Miss Schorn had a relapse. She had caught cold. Abbre¬ 
viated Latin and various numerals went down on the index- 
card. Dorothy typed his pencilled notes out on the index- 
cards. Miss Schorn’s relapse was annoying, but not impor¬ 
tant. He went to see her once or twice, that was all. 
Dorothy booked the visits with a vicious pen. She was per¬ 
fectly loyal. She never opened her mouth above stairs or 
below. But Lily was amazed to find that Ma had had a 
temper stowed away all these years which could and did 
knock the stuffing clean out of her own in less time than 
it would have taken Balmforth’s dimorphous bee to wink 
his tail. It was noted with surprise by Mrs. Snaith, Florrie, 
cook and Ledward, that for a whole fortnight Lily was good. 
More cannot be said. 

Katrine’s birthday happened to fall within this period. 
Harding took pains not to be unmindful of the occasion. On 
previous anniversaries he had usually given her two presents. 
This year Katrine found herself the recipient of no fewer 
than four love-gifts: a wide strip of wonderful point 
d’Alengon, a barbarically-gorgeous necklace of jewels and 
beads chock-a-block, a ruby-and-diamond pendant of ultra¬ 
exotic design, and a set of one of her favourite authors 
“gipsy” bound—the gilt pattern and the colour of the 
leather different for each volume, harmony being preserved. 

“But how perfectly dinky! I never heard of the idea 
before. How did you happen to hit on it, Harry?” 



A QUICKSAND WOMAN 


171 


The wording of her elaborately spontaneous delight 
jarred. Someone else had said, “How perfectly dinky,” in 
his hearing yesterday, and the expression had been new to 
him. 

“Oh, I saw a set bound like that somewhere, and thought 
you might like one. So I made a mental note of it.” 

“How awfully sweet of you.”—Why will women all use 
the same catch-phrases?—“And this lace! I never saw 
anything finer. But what can I do with it?” 

“You wear it over your head,” said Harding carelessly, 
“when you go out—or in the house, if you like.” 

Katrine would as soon have thought of going into the 
street in a dressing-gown as of putting lace over her head 
in her own home. As a wrap for outside it was an idea. 
Only- 

“I can’t wear white, Harding. It doesn’t go with my 
complexion.” 

“Sorry. Get it dyed, then.” 

Dye that almost priceless lace! 

White. A dark woman might wear white. Adrienne 
Schorn was dark. 

A ruby and diamond pendant. Who can expect a woman 
with red-gold hair to wear rubies? But a dark woman may 
wear rubies. 

She had a birthday dinner—a tete-a-tete dinner. Every¬ 
thing was done to schedule. Harding drank her health, and 
made a speech in which he judiciously toned down an 
allusion to a well-stocked nursery, which had been instituted 
as a feature of it in their early married days—a joke 
harmless enough then, but beginning to hurt now. 

They went up into the drawing-room. The champagne— 
a luxury reserved for special occasions—had melted the 



172 


“ QUACK ! ” 


frozen atmosphere to somewhere about 33° Fahrenheit. They 
made creditable attempts to talk and laugh, and pretended 
hard to each other that all was well as well. To prove this 
conclusively, Katrine called him Hal. 

He began to show signs of restlessness about ten. At 
half-past he said: “Well! I must go upstairs for an hour.” 

“Oh, Harry! Tonight?” 

“It can’t be helped, dear. I have some very important 
experiments in hand just now.” 

“But must you?” 

He steeled himself. “I certainly must.” He kissed her 
on the forehead. 

So Katrine spent the last hour of the evening of her birth¬ 
day alone in the drawing-room of the house to which her 
husband had brought her five years before. She did not 
cry. Her eyes merely smarted. 

Miss Schorn’s convalescence was complete. Harding told 
her so. Prudence, especially about late hours, would be 
necessary. But he could do no more for her. 

“It will be good-bye, then. But I should like to cele¬ 
brate the completion of the miracle. Not tomorrow, I think. 
Are you and Mrs. Fullar free Thursday or Friday?” 

As far as Harding knew. 

“Will you ask her?” 

He could not refuse to ask. 

“I used to say ‘Katrine’ in the old days, when she was 
so sweet to Irma, but I should not dare now.” 

On the whole Harding thought that she had better not 
dare, but he kept this to himself. 

“Miss Schorn wants to know if we will dine with her to¬ 
morrow night, Rina. It is a farewell feast which she offers 


A QUICKSAND WOMAN 


173 


Adrienne Schorn’s name had never been mentioned be¬ 
tween them since Katrine had refused to consult. 

“Whom are we invited to dinner by?” 

“Miss Schorn.” 

“Is that her name?” 

Harding was annoyed again. 

“It is the name she goes by.” 

“Do you know what her legal name is?” 

Harding had to admit that he did not. 

“And do you suppose that I would accept an invitation 
sent through my husband from a woman whose real name 
even he does not know?” 

“Oh, hang it, Katrine! She is an actress, and . . 

“Precisely.” The interruption was a rapier of ice. “She 
is an actress and—I refrain.” 

Was there ever anything so absurd? Not even the most 
strait-laced of frumps turns up her nose at stage beauties 
because their private lives are not impeccable. 

“Has she ever done anything to offend you, Rina?” 

“Certainly not. I’ve never had anything to do with her.” 

“Well, her sister is a friend of yours.” 

“Irma is very different. It is not the least use trying 
to argue the matter, Harding. You will please yourself, 
of course. But nothing would induce me to accept an in¬ 
vitation from that woman.” 

When one member of the female sex calls another “that 
woman” . . . 

“Oh, no. I won’t go if you won’t,” said Harding in¬ 
differently. He rarely went out without Katrine except to 
medical dinners. 

He called up Miss Schorn on the telephone—from the 
consulting-room. 


174 


“QUACK ! ” 


“My wife does not feel equal to accepting any more in¬ 
vitations just now.” That was as near as he could bring 
himself to stating the position. 

“Oh, I am so sorry.” Miss Schorn sounded sorry. “I 
shall expect you then, at half-past seven.” 

“I am afraid I can’t come either, Miss Schorn.” 

“Not tomorrow? Very well—Friday then. I shall 
expect you at half-past seven on Friday.” She replaced 
her receiver. 

How could he refuse? She had not given him time. 

He could write and excuse himself— say there was a 
medical dinner he was obliged to attend, which he had for¬ 
gotten . . . 

He glanced at the reminder-tablet on his desk. There 
was a medical dinner on Friday. 

“Don’t forget to tell West that he has to take us down to 
Barlswood tomorrow evening, Hal. We must dine early, or 
we shall be so late getting there. Can you manage to be in 
by half-past six? We need not dress.” 

They had a house in the country. 

“Well—there is the Aid Society dinner tomorrow, Rina.” 

“I thought you did not intend to go. You said so, when 
you received the notification.” 

“Did I? It looks rather bad never to go to those things. 
I didn’t to the last.” 

“Oh, go if you like. I will take the afternoon train, and 
you can have the car.” 

“No—I’ll send the car back for you at five, and if I can 
I’ll come in it. If not, I’ll go to the dinner, and catch the 
eleven o’clock from Waterloo.” He did not wish to have 
West taking him to and fetching him from—the medical 
dinner—if he went. 


A QUIGKSAND WOMAN 


175 


“Very well. But you must let me know tomorrow morn¬ 
ing whether you are coming with me or not, because I must 
telephone to Mrs. Hamp and order the dinner.” 

How unnecessarily women complicate things by insisting 
on making their arrangements beforehand! 

“Tell her dinner for two. What does it matter?” 

“That is wasteful, Harry. She prepares quite a different 
meal when you are to be there from what suffices for me 
when I am alone.” 

They had long ago agreed that waste is a sin against God 
and man—as it is, no matter how much money one may have. 

Harding was rarely irresolute. But he had not made up 
his mind about the medical dinner even at breakfast next 
morning. 

“I must let Mrs. Hamp know in time for the shopping. 
She has to send to Guildford for everything. Do decide, 
Harry.” 

“Perhaps I had better come down by train.” 

He came in late. He had hardly time to dress in any 
case, and the studs and links had been left in yesterday’s 
shirt instead of being transferred to a clean one. Didn’t 
Florrie know by this time that he always wore a clean shirt 
when he went out to dinner?” 

“I forgot, Mr. Fullar, with Ledward attending to your 
things now generally.” 

Ledward was butler-valet. 

“Go and get a taxi.” 

Also, the house was empty—that is to say, Katrine was 
away. 

Florrie was not so much accustomed as she had once been 
to find a taxi between quarter and half-past seven in the 
evening. Taxis have a tricky way of changing their habits 


176 


“ QUACK ! ” 


which some painstaking London amateur naturalist might 
benefit the rest of us by studying. Harding fumed for five 
minutes on the steps. 

“Can’t you get one?” 

Florrie was panting. “I thought perhaps it would be 
quicker if I came back and you walked up Sloane Street. 
You are sure to meet one before you get to Knightsbridge.” 

But he didn’t. 

Above all things he hated unpunctuality. His years of 
research had made him almost as methodical as a Cabinet 
Minister’s wife—who has to be fussy, or she would never get 
her husband to dinner at all. Harding was rigorously punc¬ 
tual. Now he was late—already—and he might have been 
dining comfortably at home preparatory to rolling smoothly 
down to Barlswood in his big properly-sprung car, with his 
arm tucked cosily through Rina’s, instead of being bumped 
and jerked about like a pea in a pill-box—oh, damn! 

Why on earth had he hesitated during the second or so 
Mis Schorn had waited for an answer before she hung up on 
Wednesday evening? She had waited—well, perhaps not 
for a second, but for an appreciable space of time. Why 
had he not taken advantage of the interval to say: “Not 
Friday either. I am full up just now.” She had given him 
time to think of that. 

What was he bothering about the woman at all for? He 
didn’t like her—particularly—and he did not wish to have 
women friends unless they were first and foremost Rina’s 
friends. Damn the woman. One thing he was absolutely 
sure of—this was the last time he would allow her to jockey 
him into doing what he didn’t want to do. 

He arrived at her house in a vile temper. She appeared 
in the hall immediately. 


A QUICKSAND WOMAN 


177 


“How nice of you to be so punctual, Miracle-Worker. No, 
don’t take off your coat.” 

She had an opera-cloak on—also other things. Item, a 
cerise silk frock under black lace; it was not cut noticeably 
low in front, but it left bare the part of the chest immedi¬ 
ately below the upspringing column of the long white neck 
whose perfect outline he had restored—for, pace Pryce- 
Harris, there had been a swelling. Item, silk stockings and 
shoes matching the dress, both decorated in a design like 
large black lace-work—an effect bizarre but striking. Item, 
long gloves of bright gold with a chessboard, pattern in 
black on the gauntlet part. Item, jewels. Altogether, an 
attractive lady: and, really, she had the beauty which can 
carry cosmetics. They suited her. 

“Are we going out?” 

“Certainly we are going out. That was the idea, wasn’t 
it? My brougham will be round in one minute.” 

It was. And it was a very small brougham—electric— 
perfectly cushioned, upholstered in pink, daintily scented 
with the same perfume Miss Schorn used, its windows cun¬ 
ningly blinded so that the insiders could see out, but out¬ 
siders could not see in. 

Katrine rarely used scent. . . . 

Why should he have thought of that? 

“This is really nice of you, Miracle-Worker. You will 
go on being nice, won’t you? Not be a growly-gruff 
tonight?” 

“I didn’t know we were going to be alone.” 

“I didn’t.” Miss Schorn laughed with dancing eyes. 
They were wonderful eyes—and it really was Katrine’s 
fault if he were going out to dinner tete-a-tete with them. 

“This is like old times,” she said after a short silence. 


178 “ QUACK ! ” 

“There was nothing I used to love so much when I was play¬ 
ing as to have a nice man come and take me out to dinner. 
You see, I had to be at the theatre at nine, so there was no 
time for him to try any nonsense.”—She sighed.—“Women 
in my position are blamed whenever a man makes a fool of 
himself. I always chose men who wouldn’t—or whom I 
thought wouldn’t.”—She turned the eyes on him again.— 
“By which I don’t mean that I have always been free from 
blame. It would be no use pretending to you that I had, 
because you know all about me. But not under those cir¬ 
cumstances. I never got into mischief when I had work to 
do. That is why I never refuse an offer that is anything like 
reasonable. For instance, Sir David Mostyn has written to 
know whether I will play in his next production. The lead 
is an ingenue —he thinks of Dorice Layne—and I should be 
a sprightly aunt—the second part. I have told him I will 
provided I am not called upon for at least a month.” 

Miss Schorn was being very professional. Harding felt 
relieved. He had supposed, from the way in which she had 
spoken on the Wednesday, that the invitation was for dinner 
at her house, and had not anticipated the brougham. When 
he saw it, he had felt inclined to shy, like an over-coaxed 
mare at a fence. But if Miss Schorn kept to this tone . . . 

“Do you get sick of your work? I never did of mine, 
and yours must be even more interesting—or does it become 
monotonous—do you find yourself dealing with the same 
case over and over again, and only the patient different? 
If so, I should think it would be monotonous, because you 
can’t take much interest in the patients personally.” 

Harding explained that in his field the personal factor 
was rarely negligible, and frequently of great importance. 
Certain disorders brought about a nervous condition which 


A QUICKSAND WOMAN 


179 


made diagnosis difficult unless one could obtain a clear 
picture of the patient’s temperament when in health. 

“Is that so? But how do you manage when there are 
no relatives or near friends to ask?” 

“Sometimes my wife helps me.” Harding had an idea 
that it might be well to bring Katrine into the conversation 
occasionally. 

“Your wife is a very lucky woman as well as a clever one. 
And I know she can be very sweet to most people. Unfor¬ 
tunately, she doesn’t like me.” There was a sound like the 
lightest of sighs. “Well, I can’t expect everyone to like me, 
can I, Miracle-Worker?” Miss Schorn leaned lightly 
towards him. He inhaled her perfume. Their faces almost 
touched. Harding drew back. “Where are we going?” 

“I haven’t the slightest idea. I told my man to drive 
towards Piccadilly Circus, and we would tell him on the 
way. I thought you might know a place. We want a good 
dinner—because you must have a really good dinner, after 
your day’s work. And, please, don’t be stupid about my 
paying when the bill comes.” 

It happened that Harding did know a place. A knowl¬ 
edgeable man had taken him to it. 

“But we don’t want too many people, because—oh, well, 
you know what people are. There is no need for all London 
to know that we have been dining together.” 

Tactful—very. The place he had in mind seemed exactly 
suitable. But perhaps she knew it. 

“Have you ever been to the Marvadevi?” 

“The Marva-” she seemed to have difficulty in getting 

hold of the name. “I don’t think so. Where is it?” 

Harding told her, and she directed her man through the 
speaking-tube. 



180 


“ QUACK ! ” 


As he helped her out at the restaurant, Harding plumed 
himself on having turned the conversation on to Katrine 
and negotiated a possibly tricky bit of tete-a-tete which he 
had genuinely not anticipated. Never plume yourselves, 
Trousers, when you are next to Skirts. 

“What a quaint place!” 

Everything pleased her. The food; the brown waiter, 
with bristling black hair and moustaches, who hopped about 
as if he were made of india-rubber; the West-African cut- 
leather work that lined the walls; the Chinese carved ebony 
lanterns that did not show their electric lamps . . . 

“Where did they get those? I wish I knew. One of them 
would be just the last perfect touch in my drawing-room, 
don’t you think?” 

“I daresay I could get you one,” volunteered Harding. 
“They come from China. They are specially made for a 
firm of electricians who also deal in medical appliances. I 
think they would let me have one.” 

“Oh, could you—really? That would be most awfully 
sweet of you. Then it will always be there to remind me of 
my Miracle-Worker. Only you must let me pay for it,” 
added Miss Schorn firmly. She appeared to have a morbid 
dread of sponging: Harding despised sponging women. 

“Just as you like.” 

“I would like to have bulbs of pinky glass—only faintly 
pinky—you know the kind I mean?” 

“I think so.” 

“It would be a crime to put a coloured jar, or anything, 
inside the woodwork, because the charm of the thing is that 
you appear to see right through it and yet inside you don’t 

see anything but light. Of course that can’t be so-” 

“But it is.” 



A QUICKSAND WOMAN 


181 


“How? Where is the lamp, then?” 

“The lamps are in the dome at the top, and in the lower 
part of the lantern is a convex mirror which throws the light 
out in all directions.” 

“How very ingenious! And how very clever of you to 
know!” 

He did not, however, know of any firm of electricians who 
stocked lamps made of faintly pinky glass, nor, as he after¬ 
wards discovered, did the electricians know of a firm of 
lamp-manufacturers who made such things. Adrienne’s 
lamps had to be specially made to the order of Mr. Harding 
Fullar, and no little speculation was directed to the question 
of what that particular shade could be intended for. A 
ribald clerk in the electrician’s office, who was asked by 
another if he knew, guessed correctly. 

But that was a week or two later. Meanwhile, for a little 
longer—a very little longer—Adrienne was going to be Miss 
Schorn. 

“I love a pinky light in a room—don’t you? No—of 
course you wouldn’t—how silly of me,” she laughed. “I 
like it because it helps me to look my best. When I want 
to read I use an ordinary reading-lamp with a cord thing, 
so that I can put it on a stand by my chair and the light 
falls on the book and not in my eyes.” 

So she read. What? 

Biography, it appeared. And autobiography—so called. 

“That last book of Lady Canton’s was too delicious, 
wasn’t it? Isn’t she a malicious old crone? Didn’t you 
read it? Oh, you must—it is full of good things.” 

She told him some of them. She told other stories— 
about people. Harding had a country lad’s sense of humour, 
having been brought up, for practical purposes, in the coun- 


182 


“ QUACK ! ” 


try. He told two or three country stories, and Miss Schorn 
was delighted with them, especially with his broad accent. 
She tried to imitate it, and laughed a great deal over her 
inability to reproduce the vowel sounds. 

“I think I will have my cloak off now.” 

Harding made a movement, but the waiter was too quick 
for him. He took Miss Schorn’s cloak from her shoulders 
deftly, and as deftly drooped it over the back of the chair. 
He might have done it before—with the same cloak—and 
the same chair. 

It then appeared that the black lace and cerise silk 
dress, although cut only moderately low at the bosom— 
which was all that could be seen of the top of it while the 
opera cloak was on—had no top at all. It ended off all 
round below the shoulder-level—Miss Schorn’s arms were 
quite bare—and the effect was startling. The upper third 
of Miss Schorn rose out of the dress as if the latter might 
slip off at a second’s notice, and as if there were nothing 
underneath it except the lady. The shoulders and arms thus 
exposed were worth looking at. She had plumped out 
amazingly. 

“Are you admiring your handiwork?” she whispered, 
leaning across the table. “You may ...” 

He met her look . . . something swam into her liquid 
eyes. . . . 

He was conscious of an impulse which gave him a thrill¬ 
ing sensation. He wished that he had responded to the 
look: he did not know that he had done so. The tone of the 
conversation changed. It became more intimate, more 
personal. Presently Miss Schorn said: 

“Ring me up and take me out some evening while I am 
playing with Mostyn, Miracle-Worker. It would be so 


A QUICKSAND WOMAN 


183 


jolly. You would be free by nine, unless you want to 
come to the show. I will get you a box if you do. Only, 
don’t bring anybody else.” 

Harding agreed, with the thought in his mind that such 
arrangements are seldom kept. He regretted the fact. 

The coffee came. 

“Mayn’t I smoke, Miracle-Worker? Just one—tonight!” 

He had forbidden her to smoke for a month. 

“I don’t know that one cigarette would do you any 
harm.”—0 Rhadamanthus! 

She took a gold case out of her bag. “I brought it with 
trembling,” she affirmed as she offered him a cigarette. 
“I should not have dared to produce it unless you had 
given permission.—Yes, you may look.” 

There was an inscription inside the case. 

“A pretty compliment.” 

“It is the usual souvenir of a command performance. 
Do you know Him?” 

Harding had not the honour. 

“Interesting personality. A marked sense of duty—and 
of his proper dignity. He can be severe, you know. Did 
you ever hear what he said to Trixie Morant?” 

“No.” 

She related the anecdote, a somewhat daring one. As a 
rule, Harding had a clean-minded man’s dislike for tattle, 
but it was in abeyance tonight. He felt a trifle ashamed of 
himself, and looked at his watch. 

“Is it time for you to go?” 

“I have to catch the eleven o’clock from Waterloo,” said 
Harding with as much indifference as he could put into his 
voice. “I shall have plenty of time if I leave in a quarter 
of an hour.” 


184 “ QUACK ! ” 

“Then you shall see me home, and my man will drive you 
on to Waterloo.” 

“Thanks.” 

A brief silence. Harding had become thoughtful. 

“Going into the country for the week-end?” 

“Yes.” 

“You have a country-house, haven’t you?” 

He faced the implication. “Yes. I am going down there. 
Katrine went this afternoon.” 

Silence. Suddenly he looked up to find her face close to 
his. She was leaning over the table again. 

“Miracle-Worker”—her words came hurriedly, as of 
impulse—“please don’t have a train to catch next time.” 

“There won’t be a next time,” came full and strong to 
Harding’s lips of a volition not his own; but the words did 
not pass the gate. 

Adrienne Schorn saw that she had overshot her mark for 
the moment. She instantly went back to the merely friendly 
tone, brightened gradually as from the desire that children 
feel to wring the utmost of happiness from the last minutes 
of a treat, and as the quarter of an hour drew to a close was 
at her gayest. 

“Time!” said Harding, still laughing over her last witti¬ 
cism. “I must go.” 

“Really?” 

He nodded. 

She drew a breath of regret, and opened her bag. “How 
much is it, Giuseppe? You need not bring a bill. I hate 
bills.” 

The waiter was bringing a bill, nevertheless. Apparently, 
he had had it ready. 

“What is that? Oh.” 


A QUICKSAND WOMAN 


185 


The waiter was whispering to her. Harding overheard— 
“The last time you was here”—and wondered a little. But, 
of course, he banished his wonder immediately. Any 
gentleman would. 

“All right.” Miss Schorn nodded and smiled at Giuseppe 
—as she called him. “You can keep the change.” 

“How do you know his name is Giuseppe?” asked Hard¬ 
ing. This was not wonder. 

Miss Schorn shrugged her white shoulders as she looked 
round for her cloak. Harding rose, and she stood up, talk¬ 
ing while he put it on. “He recognised me, you know— 
nearly everybody does. He wanted me to promise to rec¬ 
ommend the place, and to come again.” She lifted the 
cloak off her shoulders, drew it round her in a wide sweep, 
arranged the folds. Even then it was not quite right: the 
process had to be gone through a second time. She was 
close to Harding—if he had raised his arms, she would 
have been in them. 

He had put on Katrine’s cloak many a time. Katrine 
always pulled it round herself and moved away simultane¬ 
ously. She did not lean back so that her body touched his 
—not in a restaurant. 

Ensconced in the brougham, Adrienne Schorn became 
pensive. Harding fell in with her mood. They were not 
far from her house, which was in a long, quiet street, when 
she said in a low voice: 

“I asked you just now not to have a train to catch next 
time. But I don’t think there must be a next time, M;iracle- 
Worker. We had better not meet again—unless as doctor 
and patient, if I should ever be seriously ill. Don’t you 
think that is best?” 

Disappointed, Harding said: “Perhaps it is.” 


186 “ QUACK ! ” 

She sighed. “It is good-bye, then.” She lifted her face. 
There was a hint of tears in her eyes. 

The kiss was different from any of Katrine’s kisses. 
Adrienne’s lips were warm and moist. They tasted as of a 
bitter-sweet perfume—a sub-acid saccharinity that excited 
and enervated at the same time—and they clung . . . and 
stung. 

As the brougham drew up she laid her hand softly on 
his. 

“Stay where you are. I would rather get out alone.” 

He obeyed, and by the light of the street-lamp caught a 
last glimpse of her tall figure as she turned her head and 
waved him a last farewell with a sad, fleeting smile. 

The train clink-clanked its way into Surrey. The only other 
occupant of the compartment was a very old gentleman 
who asked Harding if he would be so good as to screen the 
light. Harding complied. The old gentleman wrapped a 
rug round his body from the waist downwards by the 
process of standing up and winding himself into it, pulled 
an old-fashioned travelling-cap well down on his head, and 
composed himself to slumber. Harding tried to follow the 
example. He had only done his usual day’s work, but he 
was unusually tired. 

Yet he could not sleep. Some poison had got into his 
veins. It was a poison that caused a tingling of the skin 
—especially about the lips. His lips were hot and dry. 

All the time, deep down in that subconscious mind he 
believed to be nothing more than an automatic chemical 
laboratory, a tiny thought was hammering. “She had been 
to that place before—she knew the waiter’s name—it was 
an unpaid bill, left over since before her illness, that he 
presented to her—she is a liar, and probably a cheat, be- 


A QUICKSAND WOMAN 


187 


cause she had forgotten about that bill, or she would not 
have gone there with you.” 

But the conscious intelligence would not listen to the 
warning. It was dominated by— 

Witchcraft? What nonsense. 

He did not see Adrienne again for four days. She had 
become Adrienne in that moment in the brougham. On the 
Tuesday morning he received a message through Dorothy 
asking him to call in the afternoon. It was to be in the 
afternoon: as late as he liked. 

He took her last. 

She greeted him gaily, gave him tea, chattered about what 
she had done during the week-end. There was no allusion 
to a break in their relations. Instead, her manner was more 
intimate. There were new inflections of tone—turns of 
phrase—with an undernote of laughing mischief which 
puzzled him. 

“Did you remember to order my lantern?—And the 
lamps?—When are they coming?” 

Harding explained that the lamps would have to be made. 
The glass had to be specially prepared, etc. 

She looked concerned. “I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t 
have bothered. I thought you would only have to tell the 
electric people to send them with the wood-thing.” 

He assured her that it had been no trouble at all. Liar. 

“All the same, I would never have asked you, if I had 
known. You are going to let me pay for everything, aren’t 
you?” 

He assured her he would. 

“You are not deceiving me by paying and pretending you 
haven’t?” 

He laughed. 


188 


“ QUACK ! ” 


“Perhaps you haven’t actually, but mean to?” 

“No. I will leave you to pay for your fancies.” 

“Now remember, you’ve promised.” 

(Two years later, Dorothy marched into the breakfast- 
room one morning, well aware that Harding had gone out 
and that Katrine would be there alone, put a letter from the 
electrical firm on the table at Katrine’s elbow, said sedately, 
“I thought you might prefer to deal with this, Mrs. Fullar,” 
and as sedately marched out again. Katrine, by that time a 
moderately intelligent wife, paid the thirteen-odd pounds 
which the firm had been trying to collect from Miss Schorn 
for two years, and said nothing.) 

“Did you send for me to tell me of your going into the 
park and to ask about the lamps?” 

“No.” Adrienne’s laughter bubbled over. “You have 
deceived me, Mr. Miracle-Worker. I never thought you 
were clever enough for it—not in that way.” 

“How have I deceived you?” 

Adrienne was sitting on the couch, a long and roomy 
chesterfield, upholstered in black satin ornamented with 
brilliantly-coloured arabesques. “Come and sit here, and I 
will tell you.” The spot she patted with a character-full 
hand was close beside her. 

Harding complied with a flicker of unwillingness. She 
swayed her body close to his, and whispered: “I never 
thought you were a naughty man. I thought you one of the 
highest of the highbrow brigade—a really superior-to- 
everything specimen of Man-” 

Her arm stole round his neck. 

“Even after you kissed me. But you have played the 
game before, Mr. Man. You had your name put down as 
having attended a public dinner on Friday.” 



A QUICKSAND WOMAN 


189 


Meanwhile, Katrine had wandered alone in frozen and 
torrid hells, in arid wastes had panted for a drop of the 
living water of love—and Harding had been insistently 
bright. If it had not been for the intolerable sting of the 
thought of Anna’s laughter when she should hear of it, 
Katrine would have packed her boxes and cleared out of 
Cadogan Gardens: but she hadn’t, because always the 
picture of a derisive Anna presented itself and made her 
bite her lips and resolve to hang on; which shows that 
even the existence of the wicked may serve the purposes of 
providence, assuming marriage to be a providential insti¬ 
tution. In the nights, Katrine had a memory to help her. 

After Harding’s transparent manoeuvres over the medical 
dinner, however, Katrine had not felt equal to returning to 
London on the Monday. She had sometimes stayed at Barls- 
wood without him before, for a few days: even longer, when 
she had a guest; but never before had she made up her 
mind to stay at Barlswood alone indefinitely. There was 
nothing for her to do except wait until the madness burned 
itself out, and she felt that she could do that better if 
she did not see her husband too often. For the time 
being, another woman had taken him—taken him, as she 
believed, utterly. 

Adrienne was very near getting what she wanted: but she 
made a mistake at the last moment. Like many people who 
deal in evil, she interpreted the actions of others by her 
own. A past-mistress of the arts of deception, if she had 
wished to conceal from a partner in life the fact that she was 
going to dine tete-a-tete with someone of whom he dis¬ 
approved, she would very likely have caused her name to 
appear in print as having been elsewhere. But Harding 
had not even known that his name was included in the list 


190 “ QUACK ! ” 

of those present at the Medical Aid Society dinner. He had 
sent a telegram to the secretary, on the Friday morning, 
saying that he was unavoidably prevented from attending. 
It was the common mistake, often made on purpose, of a 
charity organiser. 

Adrienne was kissing him. “There is no one in the house 
except my old Nannie,” she whispered again in that secret 
voice: “I sent the maids out; and Nannie is blind and deaf 
to everything that does not concern her.” 

Other men had lain on the downy chesterfield- 

Harding freed himself, and got up. 

It was a very angry and suspicious woman that he left 
five minutes later. She had not shown her anger. She had 
appeared to accept his excuse. For, manlike, he had not 
been able to bring himself to be outspoken. 

Outside, his feet carried him away mechanically. He was 
incapable of thought. It was as if the familiar phenomena 
of the everyday world had suddenly slipped out of sight, 
and he were alone in a vast emptiness. He felt almost as a 
little child does who suddenly realises that mummy isn’t 
there. He wanted- 

He looked at his watch. A quarter to seven. There was 
a train to Barlswood at seven-twenty-five- 

Barlswood—Katrine was at Barlswood. That was why 
he wanted to go there. 

But what excuse could he make for appearing without 
notice? What about tomorrow morning’s early appoint¬ 
ments? He could telephone to Dorothy to rearrange the 
appointments before eleven for later, as far as she could; 
and tell Rina that he had felt he wanted to see her again- 

That would not pass muster. He had only parted from 
her yesterday morning. And lately- 







A QUICKSAND WOMAN 


191 


If he went to Barlswood, he would have to tell Katrine 
everything. He knew very little about women in the general, 
but he knew enough about his Katrine—and himself—to 
foresee that his appearance at Barlswood would be tanta¬ 
mount to a confession. 

A confession of what? As to the deception he had prac¬ 
tised in regard to the Friday evening? 

That involved everything. 

But what did everything amount to? What had really 
happened as to his relations with Adrienne Schorn? 

He was groping in unfamiliar regions. A man less given 
to self-analysis perhaps never lived. But he had one of the 
indispensable qualifications for arriving at a right con¬ 
clusion—he was accustomed to seek the truth whole¬ 
heartedly, without permitting a prejudice to influence him. 
The habit stood him in good stead now. By degrees, pain¬ 
fully, he arrived at the conclusion that what was really in 
question was not his relations with Adrienne Schorn, but 
his relations with Katrine, and not only in regard to the 
last month or so, but for a considerable time past. A year 
—nearly. Things had been wrong since that difference they 
had over the redecorating and rearrangement of the rooms 
at Barlswood. He had been brain-tired at the moment, 
and Katrine unusually dense; instead of being patient, of 
persevering until he had made her see why he could not 
allow her to do as she wished, he had put the steam-roller 
over her, in a slang phrase. She had given way at once. 
He had known that she was hurt, but he had said nothing. 
There had never been any explanation, exchange of apolo¬ 
gies, mutual resolve to try and have more sense and more 
forbearance—as there always had been before, when a 
difference had temporarily divided them. The incident had 


192 “ QUACK ! ” 

dropped into the pool of their common memories, and ever 
since had been making the sweet water brackish. 

He must put that right. They both had strong wills— 
they had discovered that early in married life, and had 
sagely agreed that it was not possible for them to make a 
real success of it unless they could go on loving each other. 
But to go on loving requires a mutual daily effort, and he 
had become so deeply absorbed in his work that he had 
neglected his share. Katrine was not to blame. She had 
tried, in various ways, to keep the flickering flame alight: 
not an easy task, for a woman so delicately proud. But, 
imperceptibly, the hearth had grown cold. The process had 
begun even before the jar over the rearrangements at Barls- 
wood: otherwise, they would have made that up. 

His meditations had carried him a considerable distance. 
He scarcely knew where he was. At the next corner he 
worked out his latitude and longitude and consulted his 
watch again. There was not too much time. He cogitated 
hastily. The nearest point at which he was certain to find a 
taxi was Baker Street Station; but every step in that direc¬ 
tion would add to the drive. He went to Oxford Circus. 

It was an error of judgment. If he had gone to Baker 
Street and taken the tube, he might have caught the train to 
Barlswood. As it was, although he promised the chauffeur 
a sovereign if Waterloo were reached by seven-twenty-three, 
it was seven-twenty-six when they got there: and London 
suburban trains wait for no man—except, sometimes, the 
signalman, and then the ticket-collector at the entrance to 
the platform won’t let you through. 

For a moment Harding thought of returning to Cadogan 
Gardens. He could not present himself without warning at 
half-past ten at night. It might be nearly eleven- 



A QUICKSAND WOMAN 


193 


Imperious, not to be denied, rose in him the hunger for 
his wife. He wanted to be with Katrine—to see her, talk 
to her, and forget that damned woman. 

He dined dismally in the refreshment-room. 

As he got out of the train at Barlswood, he saw a woman 
alighting from another compartment whose face seemed 
familiar, although her figure, as to its attire at any rate, 
was not. He did not recognise her until, as they were walk¬ 
ing along the platform, she glanced at him. It was his 
housekeeper, Mrs. Hamp. He greeted her. 

“I don’t think Mrs. Fullar was expecting you, sir. She 
gave me permission to go to Guildford for the day.” 

“No, I don’t think she is. But it does not matter, Mrs. 
Hamp. I have dined.” 

“I was wondering how you would have got in, sir, if we 
hadn’t met. Mrs. Fullar generally goes to bed early when 
she is by herself. She told me to take the key, on that 
account.” 

“Then it is a good thing I met you.”—Queer, how little 
those who serve us know us! Would Mrs. Hamp’s respect 
for him have been as great if she had known what had 
brought him down unexpectedly? 

The house was dark. He went upstairs, and, softly, 
entered Katrine’s room. She was asleep. 

He would have to wait till morning. He turned to go 
out. 

Something rose up inside him and insisted: “No. Now. 
If you don’t tell her tonight, perhaps tomorrow you won’t 
tell her—something may happen to put you off—and then 
you may never tell her. If she is asleep, wake her up. Go 
on, man—if you are a man! Wake her up!” 

“Oh, you foolish man!” cried a radiant, starry-eyed 


194 “ QUACK ! ” 

Katrine about two hours later. “Oh, you foolish, foolish 
man!” 

He had confessed and been absolved. Also there had 
been a retrospective consultation, of a sort. It arose out of 
a remark of Katrine’s. “You ought not to have given her 
the reserved treatment.” 

“But, darling, you refused to consult.” 

“Harry! You know perfectly well you had made up 
your mind to give it to her, whatever I said.” 

Harding could not bring himself to admit that. Discipline 
must be maintained, as Mr. Bagnet said.—“I certainly 
wished to do so, but I was prepared to consider what you 
had to say.” 

“If you had, her present address would have been 
Brookwood.” 

“Then what would have been the use of consulting?” 

The logic of this appeared to impress Katrine.—“No, I 
don’t know whether I should have refused her the benefit of 
the reserved treatment then,” she admitted. “I can’t say. 
Let’s consult now. I am not at all sleepy.” 

One of the formalities at consultations was to sit at a 
distance from each other. On this occasion that was im¬ 
practicable. However, Katrine honoured the rules by mov¬ 
ing away from Harding until her head merely rested on the 
wrist of his outstretched arm. 

He began conscientiously: “There was no doubt as to 
the possibility of restoring a healthy life to the community. 
Her organs-” 

“I am not interested in her organs. The only use I would 
have for them would be to give them to the catsmeat man.” 

“You savage little beast! Anyhow, that was the prog¬ 
nosis. As to the record, I shall have to deal with it on the 



A QUICKSAND WOMAN 


195 


basis of what I knew after I first saw her—what you told me 
the night before, and the personal impression she made on 
me. It is a little difficult to say what that was, except that 
she did not seem at all dangerous. At first I thought the 
condition had made her a trifle light-headed. As soon as I 
entered the room, she said: ‘So you are Petruchio. How do 
you do, Petruchio?’ ” 

“What!” Katrine sat up indignantly. 

“She was not delirious-” 

“Delirious impudence!” Katrine subsided, muttering: “I 
will never forgive her—never.” 

Harding did not think this promised well for the consulta¬ 
tion. If Katrine boiled over at a mere silly pleasantry like 
giving him a nickname out of a play . . . 

“No, I don’t think she meant to be impudent. Then she 
asked after you-” 

Katrine nearly bounded out of bed. 

“She called you Petruchio the minute she set eyes on 
you?” 

“Yes, she did.” 

“And immediately after, asked after me?” 

“Yes.” 

“And you didn’t see what she meant?” 

“No.” 

“You don’t even now?” 

Harding thought profoundly. “No, I don’t.” 

“What play is Petruchio in?” 

“I don’t remember—is it one of Shakespeare’s?” 

“Yes —The Taming of the Shrew , and the name of 
Petruchio’s wife, the shrew, is Katherine—or Katrine. Now 
don’t you see it? She called you Petruchio, and immedi¬ 
ately asked after me ...” 


196 “ QUACK ! ” 

It is a fact that if this consultation had taken place in 
London, Harding might have got up, gone to Adrienne 
Schorn’s house, and smacked her soundly. He was quite 
angry enough. 

“Go on,” insisted Katrine, when he had expressed his 
feelings. “What next?” 

“I had made up my mind beforehand not to put up with 
tricks, if she tried any on . . .” 

He finished his account with: “She seemed quite subdued 
when I left.” 

Katrine rolled over and buried her face in his shoulder. 
He felt that she was shaking. 

“What’s the matter, Rina?” 

Katrine made a noise that was half sob and half choke. 

“You aren’t going to cry again, are you, dear?” (For 
she had cried.) 

Katrine sobbed and shook. 

“Rina . . . darling . . . don’t ...” 

Katrine lifted a face in which laughter and resentment 
struggled for mastery. Her eyes were dancing with mirth. 

“That makes it perfectly clear, Hal. I can’t keep up the 
injured wife any longer—as I ought to do, you bad lad.” 

“You haven’t been playing the injured wife, dearest.” 

“Yes, I have—inside. But that makes it impossible. I 
shall have to confess. It was my fault.” 

“Your fault?” He was amazed. 

“All my fault—in a way.” 

“But how, dear? You never-” 

Katrine interrupted. “It was my appeal, the night before, 
that made you put on that bullying manner with her, wasn’t 
it?” 

“Of course.” 




A QUICKSAND WOMAN 


197 


“Very well. That did it. If you hadn’t bullied her, she 
would probably never have bothered about you.” 

Harding wrinkled his forehead. “But, Kitcat, you don’t 
mean that she wanted me as a lover because I bullied her?” 
It was then that Katrine called him a foolish man. 

Harding was already asleep when she said drowsily: 
“Perhaps she was right. Good-night, Petruchio.” 


CHAPTER VIII 


The Firebrand 

As Harding was leaving the hospital, he glanced into the 
house-physician’s room, the door of which stood half-open. 
Sir William Carruthers was there. He nodded and smiled 
in acknowledgment of Harding’s greeting. Harding was 
passing on, when Sir William called out: 

“Fullar—if you have a few minutes to spare-” 

Harding turned back. 

“We are going up to see Geikle. Come with us.” 

Harding had not lost his deference to the older man, 
although he had realised by this time that Sir William was 
by no means so great professionally as he had formerly 
supposed. They all went upstairs. 

“Nervous prostration after the strike, nephritis, and 
icterus, presumably sympathetic,” remarked Sir William 
explanatorily. “There is still well-marked dyschroa. Pretty 
cool his coming here, wasn’t it, after he had done his utmost 
to cut off our supplies? It was too bad about the ice. The 
other strike-leaders were less unreasonable. I went to see 
Bob Marliss, and he admitted that he didn’t want the 
patients to suffer. But this fellow is poisonous.” 

“Pity we can’t poison him,” grumbled Rippert, the house- 
physician. “Can’t you tell us how to do it without being 
found out, Fullar? I expect you could if you wanted to.” 

“Quench the firebrand?” said Sir William. “Ah, well, 
that isn’t our business. But I confess that I should like to 
see him hanged.” 

The patient, a little man, lay on his back, staring at the 
198 



THE FIREBRAND 


199 


ceiling with an expressionless face. His skin was disfigured 
by yellow patches. His breathing was noisy, and to Hard¬ 
ing’s skilled eyes there were signs that the pulse was very 
slow. 

He turned dull eyes on the doctors as they entered, but 
did not move or speak. 

“Sir William has come to have another look at you,” said 
the house-physician. 

The patient said nothing. Sir William proceeded to the 
examination. In reply to his questions, he received grudg¬ 
ing monosyllabic replies. 

“Do you get paid for this?” was a question put to him 
in return when the examination was over. 

“No,” replied Sir William pleasantly. “I do not.” 

“Take it out of the rich, I suppose?” 

“That is what it comes to.” 

“Quite right too.” 

“Rina—I am in a quandary. I want your advice.” 

“In consultation?” 

“No. I was down at Limesea today, and I saw Geikle. 
You know whom I mean?” 

“The Labour leader—the man who ran the last strike?— 
Yes.” 

“He is in the hospital. Sir William is in charge—that is, 
he is directing the treatment.” 

“Well?” 

“Well—his diagnosis is defective.” 

“Did you tell him so?” 

“Certainly not. He merely happened to see me as I was 
passing out, and asked me to go up with him in a friendly 
way. Perhaps he thought I should be interested to see 
the famous Geikle.” 


200 “ QUACK ! ” 

• 

“Is he seriously at fault?” 

“Yes, as I read the visible symptoms. The previous 
history is inactive tuberculosis, probably dating from child¬ 
hood, with repeated attacks of bronchitis. I suspect cer¬ 
vical adenitis too, though it was not mentioned. The recent 
history, as Sir William gives it, is a nervous breakdown, 
and inflammation of the kidneys complicated by a sympa¬ 
thetic jaundice. But, as I see it, the fundamental cause 
of the present condition is a general under-functioning of 
the endocrines.” 

“Would not Sir William recognise that?” 

“He has been misled by the history. He takes the 
cachexia as tubercular, and the asthma as consequent on the 
bronchitic tendency. Similarly, he puts the pigmentation 
down exclusively to the liver. There is an absence of some 
of the usual characteristics of the condition which is mis¬ 
leading, looking at the syndrome superficially—desquama¬ 
tion and alopecia, for instance.” 

“But Sir William is not superficial, is he?” 

“No, but—do you know the chestnut about diagnosis— 
the story of the old-fashioned country practitioner’s 
method? My father used to tell it. Doctor standing on 
hearthrug. Patient comes in, puts hand to side: ‘Doctor, 
I’ve got a pain here.’ Doctor: ‘All right, I’ll send you a 
bottle of medicine.’ ” 

Katrine laughed. “I never heard that before. You are 
not insinuating that Sir William is that kind of doctor?” 

“Lord, no. But he doesn’t always see the minor indica¬ 
tions—if the signs in a general way point to a condition 
which is common, he is apt to conclude without further 
inquiry that that must be it. In this case, for instance, he 
does not perceive the significance of the conjunction of 


THE FIREBRAND 


201 


bradycardia and very low blood pressure with the other 
symptoms. To me, it is unmistakable. I will bet my hat 
that an autopsy would show that there are lesions in the 
glands.” 

“Can’t you give him a hint?” 

“Butt in?” 

“Did he not ask you what you thought of the case?” 

“No. He is perfectly satisfied with his diagnosis. So, 
apparently, is Rippert. Rippert ought to be ashamed of 
himself.” 

“Why Rippert, rather than Sir William? Rippert has 
had much less experience.” 

“Yes, but he ought to be more up-to-date. It isn’t easy 
for an all-round consultant to keep up with the latest about 
everything: It is sufficiently difficult for a specialist with a 
comparatively narrow field to be abreast with what is 
being done in that. I find it so, at any rate, and 1 suppose 
my field is the smallest of any man’s in London.” 

Katrine divined that he was defending his old backer out 
of loyalty, and did not press the point. “Can’t you give 
Rippert a hint, then?” 

“That would never do. Sir William is almost the 
Almighty at Limesea. He would bite Rippert’s head off 
if any suggestion were made which cast a doubt on his 
judgment.” 

“Then you must venture it with Sir William himself. 
He won’t bite your head off.” 

“I shall have to be very tactful. And, you know, if he 
takes it from me that it may be so, and finds that it is, he 
will want me to help him. So we must learn all we can 
about Geikle. Otherwise, what is the good of interfering if 
we are not prepared to save him?” 


202 


“ QUACK ! ” 


“You mean that it will be an R.T. case?” 

“It might be possible to keep him alive for a time by the 
exhibition of a pluriglandular extract. But I don’t think a 
permanent restoration is possible by that method alone 
when the debility is so extreme.” 

Born in one of the two compartments of a box in a brick 
oblong consisting of thirty-six such boxes, baby Archie 
crawled, as soon as he could crawl, into the narrow lane 
which separated them from another precisely similar aggre¬ 
gation of brick boxes opposite. The lane was the only 
playground he had, and there he and other children played 
in the mud when it was wet, the dust when it was dry, amid 
the filth of all kinds thrown there by the human inhabitants 
of the brick boxes. There were other kinds of inhabitants 
which need not be particularised. Archie’s father was 
usually absent during the day, returning home about dusk. 
He was always dirty when he came home, black dirty; and 
the first word Archie learned to recognise was the word 
“pit.” For it was the mining village of Cragg Low in 
Lancashire into which he had tumbled from whatever region 
he preexisted in: he was not conscious of trailing any 
clouds of glory behind him. 

His early experiences were made up of warmth and cold, 
the discomforts of rough clothing, sores resulting from dirti¬ 
ness, smackings when he cried—he learned not to do so if he 
could help it—the delight of finding bones and scraps of 
offal in the lane, the terror of dogs, and the appetisingness 
of odours which emanated from the brick boxes periodically. 
They pervaded his own particular brick box in the morn¬ 
ing and evening, when his father would occasionally give 
him a sip of tea and a morsel of meat or bacon, and laugh 
when he choked over it, calling him a ruddy little nipper. 


THE FIREBRAND 


203 


He did not see any champagne, nor did his father keep a 
bulldog: extraordinary as it may appear, it is a fact that 
miners do not always live on best joints and champagne. 

When he was seven years old Archie’s father thought it 
was time he made himself useful, and providentially an 
opportunity occurred for him to do so. One of the boys 
who looked after the ponies that lived underground per¬ 
versely died. Another boy was necessary; it had been 
proved that one boy left alone in the pit every night went 
mad. Archie was not strong enough to do much work, but 
he was company for the older boy, because he could talk, 
and be thrashed into singing. The boys did not remain in 
the pit all the time, as the ponies did. They were supposed 
to come up every week-end: but it was oftener fortnightly, 
and occasionally the intervals were longer. Archie’s longest 
spell below ground was a month. 

At nine years old he was rescued from the pit by one of 
the new School Board Inspectors, the first reinforcement of a 
coming brigade which had hitherto been represented in 
Cragg Low only by a mining inspector. These personages 
impressed Archie profoundly, as being armed with tremen¬ 
dous powers conferred upon them in a wonderful place 
called Lunnon. He was not at all surprised when the new 
gentleman from London carried the day after a hot argu¬ 
ment with his father, and he was sent to school although 
his father had sworn by heck that he should not go. In a 
vague fashion, Archie supposed “heck” to be a deity. At 
school he lapped up all the knowledge he could get. When he 
was twelve, his proficiency in writing and arithmetic enabled 
him to get a job in the office at the pit-head, with a salary of 
eighteenpence a week. His father grumbled at the amount, 
and said if he had not been such a whippersnapper he could 


204 


“ QUACK ! ” 


have earned more below ground, with the dazzling prospect 
of eventually rising to work at the face. Archie was under¬ 
sized and weakly, and his father naturally blamed him for it. 

The colliery proprietor was a big red-faced man named 
Catterall. He always looked well fed and well watered, the 
water being notoriously part whisky. He lived in a large 
house called Craghall, which was perched on the steep 
slope of the wooded hill overlooking the village: it had 
two more stories at the front than at the back. Archie, 
during the first year of his clerking, used to climb the hill of 
evenings and sit on the park wall. It came into his mind 
that a giant could give the house a push which would send 
it crashing down into the valley in a jumble of stones and 
splinters and dust. This fancy grew upon him after he had 
happened to be passing the lodge-gate one evening when 
Mr. Catterall was returning from a drive with his son and 
daughter, who were as pale and thin, though not as stunted 
in their growth otherwise, as Archie was. He stared at 
them, and at the shining panels of the carriage, the winking 
plating on the harness, and the sleek moist-coated horses. 

The lodge-keeper was out. Mr. Catterall shouted at 
Archie, told him to open the gate. Archie did so, and 
Mr. Catterall flung him a sixpence. 

Sixpence was a large sum to Archie. He reflected that if 
Mr. Catterall could afford to throw away sixpences like that, 
he could afford to pay him, Archie, more than eighteen- 
pence a week. His mother said it cost more than eighteen- 
pence to feed him: that was why she cut down his allowance 
of bread and butter. Mr. Catterall was starving him with 
one hand and throwing money at him wastefully with the 
other. The next time he sat and looked at the house he 
wanted to push it down—that would be a fine revenge. 


THE FIREBRAND 


205 


Archie was fourteen when first a gentleman of a different 
kind from London came to Cragg Low: he did not walk in 
boldly as if the place belonged to him, but with a furtive 
air, as if he did not wish to draw too much attention. He 
talked to all the miners, however, either in their houses, or 
in the publics: that is, he talked to all who would appear to 
listen to him, and at those who would not. He disappeared. 
After an interval of several months, he came again. Archie 
heard that he w T as the agent of a mysterious thing called 
Union, that Union wanted the miners to do something—he 
could not find out what—and that they were not very 
willing. When the delegate came for the third time, Archie 
buttonholed him in a discreetly secluded spot. 

“What is’t tha wants on ’em?” he demanded. 

The delegate eyed him. “What’s your name, my lad?” 

“Archie Geikle. Ah’m one o’ Tam’s”—by which he meant 
that his father’s name was Thomas. 

“How old are you?” 

“Goin’ sixteen.” 

“Too young. What’s your work?” 

“Clerkin’.” 

“You’re out of it,” said the delegate, and turned away. 
The idea of organising boys and black-coated workers had 
not arrived yet. 

“ ’Ere,” urged Archie, “not so fast wi’ thi out of it, 
mister. Ah can ’elp thee, can’t Ah? Sithee ’ere. Ah 
assist checkweighman, and Ah knaw ivry laad in t’ pit, what 
’ee earns an’ all.” 

“Do you?” said the Trade Union delegate. He tested 
the boy. Archie’s answers were prompt and accurate. The 
delegate was impressed. He explained what the Union 
was, and its objects. Archie drank it in. 


206 


“ QUACK ! ” 


“What tha wants,” he said practically, “is a felly here 
who’ll keep at it when tha gooes back t’ Lunnon.” 

“A local secretary—yes. But I can’t make you secre¬ 
tary,” replied the delegate, thinking, “What a secretary 
he would make, though, if he were older.” 

“Coorse tha canna. But Ah’ll tell thee what tha canst do 
—canst make Bert Lummox secr’tairy, and Ah’ll ’elp Bert. 
’Ee’s greaat wi’ t’ laads, because ’ee’s a chapel-un. They 
troost ’im—think ’ee’s honest, sitha.” 

“But isn’t he honest?” demanded the delegate. 

“Coorse ’ee is. Brass’ll be aw reet. But ’ee canna write 
—not more’n ’is name, nor figger, ’cept on hewin’. So 
’ee’ll be glad o’ me, Ah’ll tell ’im what t’ do—what tha 
tells me as ’ee should do. Now doost tha see?” 

The delegate looked at the sharp little white face, and 
thought this remarkable proposition over. A boy of fif¬ 
teen— 

“I’ll risk it,” he said. “Now, look here-” 

They conferred for half an hour. It was Archie Geikle’s 
first taste of power, and he savoured it mightily. 

It took two years to bring a sufficient number of the 
miners into the Union to allow the new organisation to 
raise its head. Then the colliery manager took alarm, made 
inquiries, discovered what Archie had been doing in secret, 
and dismissed him. Archie, now past his seventeenth birth¬ 
day, canvassed the men in Union, and persuaded them, with 
the concurrence of authority, to make him into a paid 
official. He secured twelve shillings a week, despite an 
opposition which regarded the sum as excessive. The 
manager dismissed Archie’s father and turned the family 
out of their brick box. Archie’s father and mother went 
away from Cragg Low, but Archie persuaded the young man 




THE FIREBRAND 


207 


who kept the Co-Op. to let him have half his bed. The 
Co-Op. shop belonged to the Co-Operative Society, so the 
colliery manager could not dislodge Archie. Then, after 
another year, spent in strenuous preparations, Archie 
launched his first strike. 

It was an immense success—an incredible, staggering 
success, because it chanced to occur at a favourable moment. 
Trade had been flourishing for some time, the miners were 
working overtime, and the price of coal had been rising. 
But for the acute there had lately been little signs—wisps of 
cloud on the industrial horizon, cat’s-paws on the financial 
sea—which told them that there was a change coming. 
The colliery manager was one of the acute. He had said 
to himself recently that things were about at the top now, 
and had sold heavily ahead. 

Came the strike—Archie’s strike—for higher wages and 
shorter hours. 

Archie had had great difficulty in persuading the men to 
put in the demand for shorter hours. They did not want 
shorter hours. They wanted to work as long as they could 
every day, except Saturday, when they either did not go 
down the pit at all or came up at midday, Sunday, and 
Monday morning. But as to the intermediate four days— 
ten hours a day? Gerron. They were willing to work 
twelve—fourteen. It was only by retorting that their ideas 
of the advance in wages they should ask for were far below 
the mark that Archie had persuaded them to do as he 
wished. 

The tactics won the strike. The manager let slip the 
fact that he had sold coal ahead on the basis of the previous 
rate of production, and at high prices that it would be much 
less of a disaster for him to pay the wages demanded and 


208 


“ QUACK ! ” 


keep to the hours than to make a compromise on both. The 
men saw their advantage, and held out. The end of it was 
that they went back to work at the face for fifty-five to sixty 
hours a week, to which they did not object in the least, and 
secured a wage-rate that increased their earnings fifty per 
cent. 

Archie Geikle found himself a local hero, and, to his 
astonishment, a person who counted nationally. Delegates 
came down from London to confer with him, talked to him 
about his ruse, and his strategy, and other things he had 
done which he identified with difficulty under these out¬ 
landish names. He attended conferences at Manchester, 
where, incidentally, he saw a bottle of champagne opened 
for the first time in his life. He did not drink any. The 
bottle was opened at the hotel he was staying at for the 
delectation of a sporting butcher and his befurred and 
befeathered lady companion. Archie imbibed instead his 
first draught of idealism. The workers must be induced to 
act together, and not merely locally, in groups; appointed 
joint-secretary for the Manchester District, he entered upon 
his new sphere with the ardour derived from an enlarged 
horizon. He soon found himself driven into enlarging it 
further. Strikes being out of the question for a year or two, 
because the price of coal was falling and the colliery pro¬ 
prietors would have been only too glad to shut down for a 
few months in order to diminish the supply, Archie took to 
addressing meetings on the twofold ideal. The workers 
were to become a brotherhood for the purpose of the battle 
with the employers. The employer must be smashed, 
ruined, driven out of business- 

“An’ wot then?” demanded a voice truculently one 
night. 



THE FIREBRAND 


209 


Archie was nonplussed. “What then?” he demanded in 
return. 

“Ah. ’Oose goin’ to pay the ruddy wages? That’s wot 
Ah’m askin’ thee.” 

Archie did not know. He got out of it for the moment— 
he was by this time a fairly practised speaker—but he 
could not answer the question satisfactorily to the heckler. 
He sought counsel. 

Soshilism. That was the answer. Soshilism. The ex¬ 
ploitation of the workers would cease. Their labours would 
be directed by experts who would ensure that wealth 
enough was produced for all, and the wealth so produced 
would be divided fairly, each worker taking his share. Into 
Archie’s mind there flashed at once the idea that the experts 
would be gentlemen from London. He had learned not to 
call them gentlemen when he spoke of them: but he still 
thought of them as such. 

This was his first conception of “the state.” He fed it by 
voracious reading. Up to then he had not read much. There 
was no library at Cragg End, and he had had no notion 
that books on economic questions existed. But in Man¬ 
chester there was a very good Reference Library, which was 
kept open till nine o’clock, and here Archie spent his eve¬ 
nings, when he was not speaking or engaged in branch 
business, devouring feverishly the works of one Karl Marx 
and his English followers and successors. Socialism. He 
learnt how to spell it and what it meant. But he still called 
it Soshilism. 

Wages had gone down. They kept on going down. Archie 
became restless, began to advocate a strike. Delegates from 
London remonstrated. It was not the time. In representing 
this fact to him they supposed that he understood the con- 


210 44 QUACK ! ” 

catenation of circumstances which had led to his earning a 
place in Trade Union history at the age of eighteen. He did 
not. He had waited a year after he was appointed secretary 
at Cragg Low, before launching his strike, merely because 
it was necessary to acquire the confidence of the men. He 
could not see what to the Federation officials in London 
was obvious. He went on with his strike propaganda, and 
was strengthened in his belief that he was right, and the 
gentlemen in London wrong, by the astonishingly little effort 
which he found to be necessary. Moreover, he discovered 
that his prestige among the rank and file was greatly 
increased by his endeavours. They told him that he was 
the lad, none o’ t’other fellies were worth their salt. He 
became puffed up, and launched a strike. 

It was a failure because it came at the wrong moment. 
The employers chiefly concerned closed down their pits, 
and showed that they were rather glad than otherwise. 
Worse than that, not all the collieries in the district were 
seriously affected: some were worked largely by men who 
had never joined the union, and during the period of falling 
wages many members had withdrawn. Archie had been 
optimistically certain that once battle was joined laggards 
and recreants would rush to the flag. Instead, non-unionists 
and ex-unionists went on working wherever they could, and 
when he tried to bring them into line his appeals were met 
with contempt. 44 Gerr ’oam and mind thy own business,” 
was a favourite retort. “Tha’st gotten a missis naw, Archie 
Geikle. ’Appen ’er’ll find thee summaat t’ doo.” For 
incidentally, Archie had married since he came to Man¬ 
chester; his bride was not one of the workers, but the 
daughter of a retail tradesman in a small way of business, 
who greatly deplored her choice of a husband. 


THE FIREBRAND 


211 


Contempt developed into hostility when an Employers 
Association was formed and locked out the men who had 
been working. One night Archie came home to his young 
wife with his cheek gashed open by a stone. And a worker 
had done it. If the brutal myrmidons of a capitalistic 
bourgeoisie had mishandled him, he would have been angry, 
but upheld by a martyr’s pride. As it was, the police had 
protected him, had saved him from further and possibly 
more serious injury. He was sore, disgusted, and resentful. 
When the strike collapsed, and the workers returned to work 
at lower wages than before, he was concerned only for 
himself. He expected the kick-out. He did not get it. He 
remained in Manchester for seven years after that, an 
embittered, disillusioned enthusiast. 

The outcome, as to his ideas, was singular, but perhaps 
natural. He could not renounce his mission. It was not 
possible for him to forget his hatred of the employers, to 
forego the aim to smash, pull down, and destroy. But his 
faith in Trade Unionism was dead, and, illogically, he had 
lost his belief in experts. He attributed the failure of the 
strike to the lukewarm fashion in which headquarters had 
supported it after it broke out. He ceased to believe in state 
action, the future channel of which he had identified with 
Union officials. He became a revolutionary Communist, and 
in the same way as he had become a Socialist—that is, he 
was converted first, and found out what Communism meant 
afterwards. 

He recovered the confidence of the rank and file, partly 
because he had ability, partly because the workers divined 
that he was honest and in a way sincerely believed what he 
advocated. Lancashire is not small-minded. “Archie Geikle 
made a bloomer, and uz got it in t’ neck. But ’ee meant all 


212 


“QUACK !” 


right” was their conclusion. Also, Geikle schooled himself. 
He realised that he must show no rancour, must not reveal 
his deep-seated contempt for the genus comrade. He spoke 
better after the dust of disaster had blown away than he had 
ever done before, because he was more careful in preparing 
his matter; he had to take care not to let anything escape 
him which it would be wiser to keep to himself. 

From Manchester he went to Leeds as secretary of the 
newly formed Northern Federation. His sphere included the 
whole of Lancashire, Yorkshire, Cumberland, Durham, and 
Northumberland. He became the most powerful official in 
the industry, and when at last he went to London, he was 
almost supreme. His throne tottered perpetually, of course. 
No labour leader ever sits secure. He is always beset by 
jealousies, intrigues, sectional movements and threatened 
cross-splits. But Geikle knew exactly how to sway a meet¬ 
ing, rarely failing to do it; and the basic force in democra¬ 
cies is the tongue. He not only ruled his own world, but 
when a provisional alliance was formed with the railway 
and transport workers with the object of bringing the Port 
of London Authority—a socialistic body, in theory—to 
reason, he was one of the committee of leaders which 
directed the strike. That was how he came to cut off sup¬ 
plies of food and other necessary requirements from the 
Limesea Hospital, where he now lay dying—unless- 

“Unless we save him,” said Harding, when he and Katrine 
had pieced the record together from reports of speeches and 
articles in the Labour press, a personal sketch or two, some 
autobiographical notes which Geikle had supplied to The 
People’s Handbook , a visit paid by Katrine—much against 
her feelings—to his wife, and a quantity of anecdotal in¬ 
formation supplied by one Bill Cresford, a Manchester man 



THE FIREBRAND 


213 


and a friend of Harding’s, who had opportunely come to 
stay with them. Cresford’s uncle was a colliery proprietor 
and had fought Geikle foot to foot, Cresford himself had 
heard Geikle speak many times, and in one way and another 
knew a good deal about him. 

“It is infernal,” grunted Harding after a silence. 

“Geikle’s character?” queried Katrine. 

“No. The way in which thousands of men are driven to 
rebel against a state of things which condemns them to 
poverty and discomfort: whereas, if they were treated with 
humane consideration, they would make good, sober citizens. 
However—to take things in order, Sir William has got on 
to the right track, and wishes me to assist him, as I expected, 
although he does not think there is much likelihood of 
saving the patient. I am by no means sure there is; the 
R.T. may fail, as it did in the case of that man Struthers 
—you remember?” 

Katrine assented. “But that was because you were too 
cautious in regard to the dose, wasn’t it?” 

“I said afterwards that it was possible he might have 
been saved if I had risked a larger dose. But I daren’t, and 
I daren’t in this case, because, the weaker the patient, the 
greater the risk of over-stimulating independent cellular 
action. Therefore, we don’t know that we can give Geikle 
a further lease of life. There is only a chance of it. Also, 
we must bear in mind that it is hardly possible for him to 
recover completely; he may be patched up: that is the most 
we can reasonably look for. So much for the prognosis. 
As to the records. Bill Cresford never heard of anything 
against him personally; he doesn’t even recollect that any of 
Geikle’s opponents ever attacked him in that way. Did 
Mrs. Geikle say anything?” 


214 


“ QUACK ! ” 


“She told me all about his money affairs. He had three 
pounds a week in Manchester at first, afterwards four 
pounds: six pounds at Leeds, and since he came to London 
eight. He has always given her the rent and a pound a week. 
That is what they have to live on. The rest goes in expenses 
of various kinds. She was very emphatic in assuring me that 
he never spent any money on himself. He neither drinks 
nor smokes. But she said: ‘It’s hard work to get a few 
shillings for a pair of boots, let alone a dress.’ ” 

“Extraordinary. Just think of the picture one generally 
gets of a labour leader in books and plays—a fellow who 
hob-nobs with duchesses and lives like a stockbroker. I 
don’t know that other labour leaders are quite so self- 
denying as Geikle. I have met a few of them, and they did 
not strike me in that way: but they seemed quiet-living 
fellows.” 

“And stockbrokers?” 

Harding laughed. “You never fail to pink me, Rina. 
However—business. As a Trade Unionist, Geikle has taken 
a large part in building up an organization which has 
achieved a great deal of good. The worst that can be said 
of him in regard to his activities in that connection is that 
he makes trouble when there need not be any, and when 
it comes about inevitably, he makes it worse than it would 
be otherwise. Do you agree?” 

“On the whole, yes. But that is a serious matter. Strikes 
are a loss to everybody.” 

“Certainly. But there is another side to it. Trade 
Unionism, with all its faults—which, as I see them, are 
mostly incidental, and not inherent—represents a lawful 
attempt to solve problems for which at present there is no 
other practical solution. Some advocates of Socialism have 


THE FIREBRAND 


215 


admitted that to be a success it would require a change of 
heart—a new vision and a new aim for the worker, involv¬ 
ing an altruistic outlook. If such a profound alteration 
in the average individual could be brought about, there 
would be no need to change the present industrial system, 
just as there would not be if the precepts of the Sermon on 
the Mount were universally acted upon. Failing idealistic 
improbabilities, Trade Unionism represents the most potent 
force for the betterment of existing conditions. Geikle’s 
contribution to it has been notable. We must allow for 
that.” 

“Granted.” 

“The rub comes in regard to the other side of his prop¬ 
aganda. He is an out-and-out direct actionist. He advo¬ 
cates the seizure of power by the workers, expropriation of 
the bourgeoisie, and the setting up of Communism. What 
Communism would prove to mean in practice I don’t know; 
I doubt if anybody does. But taking his programme as he 
states it, it involves the imposition on the country of an 
industrial system which has yet to prove its workableness 
on a large scale, and to which the majority are strongly 
opposed: there can be no justification of that. I know you 
agree with me there, so I will pass on, unless you want to 
put in anything.—What is the probability as to the realisa¬ 
tion of that programme? I see very little. Revolutions are 
outbursts of the social evolutionary force when it has been 
dammed back too long and too completely. In England, we 
don’t dam it back completely. We make periodical com¬ 
promises with it—lower the dam a little at a time, as it were 
—and, so far, that rule-and-thumb way of dealing with it 
has staved off disaster. The only exception was the Great 
Rebellion, which happened precisely because the Divine- 


216 “ QUACK ! ” 

Right exponents refused to compromise. Nowadays we 
make concessions constantly, by legislation and through 
the force of public opinion. Therefore, I don’t think there 
is much chance of Geikle and Co. persuading the workers 
to risk their certain future piecemeal gains for a highly 
problematical jump. If that is so, for practical purposes we 
only have to weigh up Geikle the Trade Unionist. There 
is a point in that connection which puzzles me. Why has 
he remained a Trade Unionist? Logically, he ought to 
have done what other extremists, in this country and abroad, 
have done—renounced Unionism and gone whole-heartedly 
for revolution. He hasn’t. Is it only because he would lose 
power by it—thinks that he can undermine Trade Unionism 
more effectively from the inside than the outside? That 
implies a degree of Machiavellianism which would affect 
my judgment. Or is it that he distrusts the practicability of 
the alternative, and will probably continue to cling to the 
proved method until direct action on a large scale is evi¬ 
dently a possibility? That would incline me to give him 
his chance—because I don’t think it will happen.” 

Katrine said: “Mrs. Geikle told me that he did not really 
hold with the workingman. Only, it is his living to say that 
he does.” 

“What did she mean by that—that he was not sincere?” 

“Oh, no—she used ‘hold with’ in the slang sense, as mean¬ 
ing ‘think much of.’ She meant that her husband has not 
really a high opinion of the intelligence and self-denying 
capacity of the average wage-earner.” 

Harding wrinkled his brows. “It struck me,” he said as 
if he were not very willing to say it, “that something of the 
kind lurked between the lines in his speeches—as though, 
really, he wanted to down everybody, worker or capitalist. I 


THE FIREBRAND 


217 


did not refer to it because it was merely a vague impression.” 

“I am afraid it is true. If he brought about his revolution, 
and it placed him in power, he would be simply a tyrant.” 

“What else did Mrs. Geikle say, that you haven’t told 
me: 

“I remarked that I was sorry her husband was ill. So 
I am. I wish he were not. She said: ‘It’ll be a mercy if 
he’s taken.’ I was so much surprised that I asked whether 
she meant that it would be a mercy for her. She said: ‘It 
don’t matter about me. He’s worn out, and if he lives he’ll 
go on wearing himself out, and no one ever the better for 
it.’ ” 

Harding digested this. “Do you know, Rina, the fact 
that he isn’t a battener on the working-man’s coppers 
strongly disposes me to save him if I can? When one 
thinks of the mile-long procession of types who do, and the 
league-long procession of those who would if they could, 
the man who is free from the taint of self-interest and 
undoubtedly does fight for the workers—however mistaken 
his ideas and however wrong his methods—seems almost a 
saint.” 

“A saint may do an infinity of harm if he tries to force 
his standards on everybody, and can persuade a number of 
fanatics to back him.” 

“Does that mean that you think we ought to let Geikle 
go?” 

Katrine did not answer for a minute. Then she said: “I 
suppose it is because of my upbringing that I have a deeper 
dread than you of such men. The mischief they may do is 
colossal. I remember an instance. Grandfather financed 
a company which had a concession to build a railway. 
Agitators worked on the men, and made things so difficult 


218 “ QUACK ! ” 

that the company was ruined, and the line left half-finished. 
As far as I know, it so remains to this day, a monument of 
the folly of demanding the moon. It seems to me that the 
extremists in economic questions are just as dangerous as 
the extremists in regard to religion were in the sixteenth and 
seventeenth centuries. They want to ram their views down 
other people’s throats, and if it came to grips, the result 
would be that after fighting and bloodshed we should return 
to the present state of things intensified for the worse—as 
England did after the Restoration, in regard to manners and 
morals. However, you don’t think there is much chance of 
the Geikles firing the mine. If that is so, and otherwise you 
feel disposed to try to save him, I am not inclined to stand 
out. I should be very glad if you saved him, for his wife’s 
sake, because, in spite of what she said, I am sure she is 
greatly attached to him.” 

Harding turned up a thumb. Katrine did the same. 
When a consultation was over, she usually got up, pushed 
away the special chair she used on these* occasions, and 
brought forward a more comfortable one. Now, she did 
not move. She seemed to be in a brown study. Harding, 
too, was puzzling over something. There was a long silence. 
Harding looked at her just as she turned to look at him. 

“Rina-” 

“Harry-” 

“I beg your pardon.” 

“No, you go on, dear.” 

“It has just occurred to me-” 

“I wonder!” 

“-That apart from the exterior circumstances, there 

is a curious similarity between this case and Lord Ambrose 
Sanborough’s.” 





THE FIREBRAND 


219 


Katrine nodded. “It came into my head just now. If 
Archie Geikle had been born to Lord Ambrose’s position, 
and vice versa , he would probably have behaved much as 
Lord Ambrose has behaved, and Lord Ambrose would 
probably have done more or less as he has done.” 

“That is what struck me. The one case equivalents the 
other.” 

“Yet we risked letting Lord Ambrose die, and have 
decided to give Geikle another chance. Why?” 

Harding reflected ruefully. “I suppose,” he admitted, 
“because I have unconsciously been biassed by my sym¬ 
pathy for the under dog.” 

“Or your want of sympathy for the upper dog?” 


CHAPTER IX 


Two Aspects 

“I think there is sufficient vitality to permit of cystotomy, 
but the exploration of the lumbar region would have to be 
left over.” 

Harding looked at the general practitioner in charge of 
the case: Dr. Strudwick made haste to agree with the dis¬ 
tinguished surgeon who had spoken. 

“I concur to that extent,” said Harding. He seemed to 
be weighing something else. “Had either of you heard of 
the patient before you were called in? He writes, I under¬ 
stand.” 

Neither Mr. Mallerson nor Dr. Strudwick had come across 
the name of Roger Quarrant in connection with literature. 
Mr. Mallerson thought the question irrelevant. “Well, do 
we operate?” he asked. 

“The question that presents itself to me,” said Harding 
slowly, “is—has the patient a sufficient chance of permanent 
recovery to justify us in doing so?” 

There was another pause. The surgeon became impatient. 

“You can never make him into a healthy man,” he ob¬ 
served in a positive manner. 

The dark-grey eyes that had been fixed thoughtfully on 
the wainscoting at the other side of the room changed to 
frosted steel as they turned towards him. Mr. Mallerson had 
an impulse to apologise. He let it pass. What he had said 
was true, even if it were not within his province to say it. 

220 


TWO ASPECTS 


221 


Why the devil should Fullar treat him like that—staring 
him down? 

“Perhaps you will let me know later,” he said huffily. 

“Yes. Tomorrow.” 

“Then I need not stay any longer.” He went. Harding 
requested Dr. Strudwick to summon Mrs. Quarrant. 

The patient’s wife was a little stoutish woman with 
harassed eyes and a receding chin. She listened while 
Harding explained to her that he could not decide off-hand 
whether there should be an operation. 

“But I want to know before you leave the house.” she 
interrupted. “I must have something definite, because if 
there is to be an operation I must telegraph to my sister 
to come and help me. I cannot possibly manage everything. 
There is the question of finding out which is the best Nursing 
Home, and how to get Roger there ...” 

When at last she paused, Harding said: “Mr. Mallerson 
and Dr. Strudwick will arrange all that between them, and 
Dr. Strudwick will give the nurse the necessary instructions. 
You need not trouble yourself about anything in connection 
with the operation. Your husband must be kept as quiet as 
possible; that is the chief thing you can do for him, Mrs. 
Quarrant. I know that this is a very trying time for you, 
but you must leave things to us.” 

Mrs. Quarrant was unwilling to leave anything in any¬ 
body’s hands except her own. She stated her views, in a con¬ 
fused, involved way: the question of an operation was bound 
up in her mind with many other questions. Harding noticed 
that, while she talked, the resentful expression which seemed 
habitual to her deepened into a dull, settled obstinacy. He 
divined that she was unwilling to be deprived of anything 
which would help to strengthen her grievance. “Roger will 


222 


“QUACK ! ” 


have to be told,” she wound up, “and if you put off deciding 
till tomorrow, I suppose I shall have to undertake that too.” 
This with an air of being still further wronged. 

“I will do that, if Dr. Strudwick allows,” replied Harding. 
Dr. Strudwick hastened to allow it. 

“You don’t know how difficult he is,” objected Mrs. Quar- 
rant. “You can never tell how Roger will take anything. 
One day he is up in the clouds, and nothing seems to matter 
to him, and the next day he will hardly speak ...” 

She went on until Harding stopped her. “Let me try, 
Mrs. Quarrant. You will see, it will be all right.” 

They went upstairs. The patient, a middle-aged man with 
close-cropped fair hair and grey-green eyes, lay partly on his 
left side—the only position in which he could rest without 
discomfort. His naturally ruddy countenance had a bluish 
pallor, but a twinkle in his eyes showed the indomitableness 
of his spirit. 

“We have had a pow-wow over you,” said Harding 
cheerily, “but we are not quite able to make up our minds 
today whether it will be best to remove the worst of the 
trouble at once. Mallerson is definite on being able to per¬ 
form the operation without exhausting you unduly, and 
Strudwick and I agree as to that. But I am a cautious sort 
of fellow, Mr. Quarrant, and I like to take my time before 
authorising operations. Will you leave it to me to decide 
tonight? Strudwick will let your wife know in the 
morning.” 

“I am quite content,” replied the patient, and indeed he 
looked so. “I have nothing to complain of, Mr. Fullar, 
whatever may be the result of your deliberations and of Mr. 
Mallerson’s intervention. ‘The soul that sinneth, it shall 
die.’ ” 


TWO ASPECTS 


223 


Harding shook his head, smiling. “There is such a thing 
as repentance,” he replied. 

“I have nothing to repent of,” declared the patient, 
“except of having been born a fool.” 

“Rina—I want to consult,” said Harding as he entered the 
drawing-room. 

Katrine was reading, and smiling over what she read. 
“Yes? Such a delightful thing has happened to me today, 
Hal—an immense compliment.” She held out the book 
as if to show it to him. 

“I am very sorry, dear,” interrupted Harding gently, 
“but my head is so full of this case that I don’t think I can 
take in anything until we have discussed it. Then you shall 
tell me about your compliment.” 

Katrine shut up her book and put it away on a side- 
table. Harding would have none of the half-an-ear business 
—“I can listen just as well while I go on with my work.” 
She sat down again, and he took his place on the other side 
of the hearth. 

“There are unpleasant features. The history, as given me 
by Strudwick, the g.p., commences at nineteen with . . .” 

Katrine frowned as she listened. “Is the patient a 
man?” 

“Yes, dear—sorry. A man of forty-five. I won’t tell 
you his name-” 

“No, don’t.” It was a rule that names were not given, if 
it could be avoided, in a certain class of cases. 

“In the course of the next seven years there were two or 
three—the patient does not remember which—infections of 
the minor kind, then double pneumonia and phthisis at 
twenty-eight, the latter said to be due to contagion, and 
during convalescence a fistula, necessitating surgical inter- 



224 “ QUACK ! ” 

vention. Strudwick attributes the functional disequilibrium 
which obtained subsequently to this long illness: I feel 
bound to say that I refer both back to the major infection. 
At thirty-one there was cystitis, and the removal of a cal¬ 
culus. The patient then went to Australia for his health; 
he had made an almost complete recovery as far as the 
phthisis was concerned, but had developed a chronic bron¬ 
chial congestion, and hoped to lose it in a drier climate. 
Apparently, he did so. His wife says-” 

“When did he marry?” 

“Just before he went to Australia.” 

“Harry!” 

“Yes, dear. I can’t say I think it was prudent. But he 
assures me—and I think he is speaking the truth—that his 
doctor told him he might marry.” 

“Still-” 

“I agree. We need not waste time over it. In Australia 
he seems to have recovered his health completely for prac¬ 
tical purposes, although the lithaemic tendency persisted— 
there were renal colics, but no serious trouble. He might 
have been an averagely healthy man today if he had not 
made a fool of himself while on a business trip to Sydney. 
There was another minor infection. That was two years 
ago.” 

“When he was forty-three!” exclaimed Katrine thor¬ 
oughly disgusted. 

“Yes. He treated himself, and did more harm than good. 
There was cystitis again, and another calculus formed. He 
had previously made arrangements to return to England, 
and put off the operation. On the voyage he was imprudent 
again. He stayed up on deck all one night-” 

“With some woman?” 




TWO ASPECTS 


225 


“I don’t know. I should not think so—his wife was with 
him.” 

Katrine’s expression indicated that she did not think that 
would matter much to a man of the patient’s type. 

“He caught a chill, landed in the early stage of pneu¬ 
monia, and since has battled through a severe attack. But 
he is extremely weak, the vesical condition is bad, there is 
pyelitis and a certain degree of hydro-nephrosis, indicating 
the presence of renal calculi. Cystotomy should be per¬ 
formed at once; Mallerson thinks, and I agree, that there is 
vitality enough to withstand the shock. But whether the 
patient would regain strength in time to permit of the 
lumbar region being explored before the condition there 
becomes dangerously acute, is a question upon which I am 
unable to prognosticate favourably except on the assump¬ 
tion that he has the benefit of Fullamin-pius. As to the 
possibility of an ultimate restoration to health, I cannot 
speak: that must be left to me,”—Harding uttered the last 
sentence with a vigour that surprised Katrine, as she did 
not know of the incident with Mallerson.—“That concludes 
the medical. Now-” 

“You need not go on, Harry. I have made up my mind.” 

“But that isn’t fair. You have only heard the medical.” 

“I don’t need to hear any more,” said Katrine with 
decision. 

“But you do. This man has a right to have his case 
fairly considered by us, just as he would if he were charged 
with an abominable offence before a judge and jury.” 

“You destroy your argument by your illustration. He 
has committed abominable offences, not perhaps against the 
criminal law, but against the social law: and it is the social 
law we have set ourselves up to administer.” 



226 


“ QUACK ! ” 


“That is not a proper way to state the function we have 
taken upon ourselves. We do not administer any kind of 
law. We only try to decide whether, in certain cases, it will 
be advantageous or disadvantageous to the community to 
maintain a person in it who will probably quit it if we 
don’t take the necessary action. What the person has done 
in the past is only relevant in so far as it has a bearing on 
his or her possible value to the community in the future.” 

“But you are not going to say that this man can be of 
any possible value to the community?” 

“That is precisely what I am going to say.” 

“Oh. I beg your pardon.” 

“I am glad you do.” 

It had become the established usage at consultations that 
they should speak out. Certain formalities of intercourse 
were observed, but there was no mercy shown. 

Katrine settled herself in her chair with the air of a jury¬ 
man listening merely because the case must go on to the end. 

“First as to his occupation. He has been in business— 
fruit-exporting. But he also writes. I don’t know what—I 
tried to get him to tell me, but he evidently did not wish to 
talk about it. It may be only a side-line. In any case, he 
is not a well-known writer. None of us had ever heard his 
name in that connection. The important thing is the per¬ 
sonal impression he made on me. I got there three-quarters 
of an hour before the others-” 

“How was that?” 

“The procession—they were held up. We all forgot it 
when we made the appointment. I thought I might be the 
guilty one if the others were ahead of me, but West raised 
his hand as if he had a Cabinet Minister’s badge in it— 
you know that trick-” 




TWO ASPECTS 


227 


Katrine smiled slightly. 

“And the police made the people open out for the car to 
go through. As I had had an outline of the case from Strud- 
wick, and knew I might have to consult you, I went up at 
once instead of waiting downstairs. The patient was lying 
in bed, smiling.” 

“What at?” 

“Himself and all the world, I gathered.” 

“He is pleased with himself?” 

“Yes—he said, later, he had nothing to repent of except 
being born a fool.” 

Katrine looked contemptuous. 

“We greeted each other, he looked me over with frank 
curiosity. I sat down by the window, because the atmos¬ 
phere wasn’t exactly—what was that expression you were 
laughing at the other day in a story, and read out to me? 
—‘all vi’lets’-” 

“Please spare me.” 

“All right. But get the picture. This chap said: ‘Isn’t 
the sun glorious? Nurse told me this morning there was 
a royal procession today, and I told her there was a royal 
procession every day—only one cannot always see it in 
England.’ He laughed, and I somehow felt warmed up 
and brightened. We talked. I can’t remember half of 
what he said—I wish I could. At first I thought he was only 
a dealer in epigrams. We began on different occupations, 
and he remarked: ‘A man can always earn a man’s pay. 
It is the hog’s wages that are hard to come at.’ There is a 
lot in that, Rina.” 

“I think it is George Meredith’s.” 

“Is it?” Harding’s tone betrayed disappointment. 

Katrine reflected. She felt that she must be fair. “No, 


228 “ QUACK ! ” r 

perhaps it isn’t. I was thinking of something else. It is in 
his style, though.” 

“Oh. How’s this—we got on to the devil, and—I sup¬ 
pose, apropos of his own case—he said: ‘I don’t think the 
devil need be ingenious. With a skirt and a broomstick 
he can do the trick for many of us.’ ” 

Katrine did not smile. She was surprised at Harding’s 
having been taken in by cheap stuff of that sort. 

“Almost in the next sentence he inquired: ‘When you meet 
the unusual, do you cross the street? I never do.’ Then 
we got on to physics, and I remarked that I thought one 
reason for the comparative rapidity of scientific progress 
in the last quarter of a century was that we were less afraid 
of facing new conceptions of familiar phenomena than our 
ancestors. He replied: ‘Yet we still feel safe only in the 
commonplace, like children at night in the nursery. We 
open the door and peer into the darkness, perhaps venture a 
step or two, then, terrified, run back and shut the door.’ I 
questioned that. After a while we drifted to my special 
subjects and he flung at me: ‘You act in the belief that every 
fact fits in with every other fact. But it doesn’t.’ I was 
rather puzzled, as I sometimes am when you talk meta¬ 
physics to me, and he saw it, so he explained: ‘The under¬ 
lying assumption of the physical sciences is that the pieces 
of the puzzle fit—isn’t it? You test doubtful facts by try¬ 
ing whether they fit, in every way, into the general body of 
ascertained facts—in other words, you deal with your 
apparent facts as if they were parts of a material puzzle, 
forming a complete whole?’ I said, yes, I thought that 
was one way of putting it. He said: ‘The adjacent surfaces 
of two material objects cannot be in contact. There must 
be space between. The same is true of scientific theories.’ 


TWO ASPECTS 


229 


Well—it’s true of the material things, and I suppose it must 
consequently be true of scientific facts and theories. Is it?” 

Harding had a way of appealing to Katrine on meta¬ 
physical points that put her on her mettle. 

“Yes, I think so,” she said after reflection. “It is a queer 
idea—but it must be so. Nothing really fits. What did you 
say?” 

“I said, no doubt it was so, but the interstices were very 
small. He retorted: ‘Infinite.’ I asked if he meant in¬ 
finitely small. He said: ‘No. Infinite.’ I couldn’t see it. 
He pointed out that solidity—weight in relation to mass—is 
now seen to depend on the number of electrons surrounding 
each atomic nucleus, their orbits, and the speed of their 
movements: therefore, apartness, as between material ob¬ 
jects, is relative. He referred to the probability that atomic 
nuclei consist of an inner nucleus surrounded by one 
or more electrons, and then mentioned something which is 
new to me—the superficial resemblance of the solar system, 
with its central sun and eight major planets, to an atom 
of one cosmic element; and that of the stellar systems, with 
their varying numbers of planets, to atoms of others. He 
asked whether I could conceive of any standard of meas¬ 
urement which would be universally applicable to the new 
spatial conception so adumbrated. I had to confess that I 
could not. By then, of course, I saw what he was getting 
at—that space is inherently infinite; the quantitative idea 
in connection with it is only applicable in the field of the 
cognisance of the senses. But he gave me a staggerer when 
he went on calmly: ‘Do you see one of the inferences— 
that infinity is predicable from any given point all ways, 
not merely outwards, but inwards? The minutest speck of 
matter encloses infinite space.’ ” 


230 “ QUACK ! ” 

Katrine cried out: “Stop! You are making my brain 
reel.” 

Harding laughed. “That is almost exactly what I said. 
Whereupon he remarked smilingly: ‘There, you see, you 
want to run back into the nursery after a very short 
excursion.’ ” 

“Wait a minute or two.” Unwilling to be beaten, 
Katrine put her forefingers to her temples and made a 
valiant effort to encompass that elusive idea. She had to 
give it up. Glancing at Harding, she saw that he was staring 
at the floor with a little smile playing round the corners of 
his lips. It struck her that he looked unusually happy. 

“You seem to be pleased with yourself and all the world, 
too.” 

“Yes—he makes you feel like that. I wish I could 
remember more. Oh—I happened to make a verbal slip 
in referring to Weismann’s Law, and he remarked with his 
twinkle: ‘If that were so, we should both be swinging by our 
tails in a banyan tree.’ I didn’t get it for a moment: then 
I saw that what I had said implied that acquired charac¬ 
teristics are not perpetuated, whereas the law is that they 
are not transmitted hereditarily. There was another one, 
apropos of the first discoveries of the principle of wireless: 
‘It is the arrow loosed in the dark that finds the mark 
nobody knew was there.’ That hit me hard. It exactly 
describes what happened when I discovered Fullamin-plus.” 

Harding was eager, almost excited. 

“Don’t you think he must have been working off stock 
phrases on you—that he had said the same things before to 
other people?” 

“They bubble out of him all the time, no matter what 
twists and turns the conversation takes. Auto-suggestion 


TWO ASPECTS 


231 


came up, and he remarked that the faculty of subconsciously 
controlling certain motor centres is probably a survival of 
the first crude form of mentality: ‘We should be careful how 
far we strengthen it, because the development of brain¬ 
power is a form of emancipation from it.’ And there was 
another, while we were still on physics: ‘Life is an aggre¬ 
gation of balanced rhythms poised amid cross-currents of 
conflicting rhythms; death, a phase of the fluency of life.’ ” 

Katrine’s mind went back to the infinity-inwards. She 
referred to it aloud. “I cannot make up my mind as to 
whether that is not mere word-spinning, like the arguments 
of the mediaeval schoolmen as to how many angels could 
sit on a needle’s point.” 

“That reminds me of something else, which I wanted to 
ask you about. In connection with it, he remarked that the 
latest discoveries were bringing us back to the Greeks: 
‘From the neo-physical conception of matter to the mysti¬ 
cism of Plotinus is but a step.’ What was the theory of 
Plotinus?” 

Katrine explained. 

Harding wrinkled his forehead. “I think I see what he 
meant. Do you?” 

“Yes—that with the abolition of the distinction between 
matter and force goes the distinction between the material 
and spiritual. Didn’t you ask him to explain?” 

“No. His wife came in, and he shut up.” 

“What is the wife like?” 

“Fussy. She had been to four shops to get a bottle of 
Sanitas for me. Why on earth should she suppose I wanted 
Sanitas? Does the woman think I don’t know how to wash 
my hands?” 

Harding had a surgeon’s contempt for disinfectants. 


232 “ QUACK ! ” 

“She meant well, dear. I pity her.” 

“So do I.” 

“Life with such a man must be hell. I suppose she can¬ 
not control him at all.” 

“If she can’t, I am pretty sure it is not for want of 
trying. She is the kind of woman who likes to lay down 
the law for everybody.” 

“No wonder, if she has had him to deal with all these 
years.” 

“I am quite as sorry for him as for her.” 

“Harding!” 

“You may Harding me as much as you like, but it’s a 
fact.” 

“Do you mean to say, that in regard to their married 
relation, you extend as much pity to him as to her?” 

“Quite as much.” 

“Is she loose, then?” 

“Good Lord, no—the incarnation of respectability. But 
I am absolutely certain that she nags—nags him all the 
time, even now. When she comes in, he has the air of a 
dog who has been whipped so often that he has come to 
expect it.” 

“But surely you don’t look upon that as a set-off against 
his wicked behaviour?” 

“Not as a set-off, but as one of the causes of it. From 
what he told Strudwick, there have not been marital rela¬ 
tions between them for years.” 

“And you blame her for that, when he runs after other 
women?” 

“We don’t know that he does. I think it unlikely. Women 
may run after him.” 

“That is no excuse.” 


TWO ASPECTS 


233 


“Don’t be sniffy and self-righteous, Rina.” 

Katrine lost her temper. “I am doing my best to listen 
and comment intelligently, and you insult me.” 

“I withdraw.” 

“I am glad you do.”—Tit for tat.—“Have you finished?” 

“I was trying to find the right words. He stimulates you, 
wakes you up, makes you feel bright and interested in 
things. ‘God’s good world’—that is another of his phrases, 
and when he utters it, you feel somehow that it is a good 
world. I didn’t arrive at the house in a particularly sweet 
temper, and I got into a wax with MJallerson because—it 
doesn’t matter why. But when I left, I was smiling to 
myself, and I believe I have been smiling in most of the 
odd moments since.” 

“I noticed you were when you came in.” 

“ ‘He has wings who has hope,’ ” quoted Harding. “He 
said that in reply to a banal remark of mine that it was a 
good thing he could be cheerful. That man looks forward 
high-heartedly, although he knows approximately what his 
condition is. A dauntless optimist with a brilliant intellect 
and health ruined through moments of folly. Now weigh 
the problem.” 

Katrine tried to weigh it judicially. 

“Does what is in his favour amount to more than this— 
that he is good-tempered and a clever conversationalist?” 

“Yes. He has a radiant spirit, and he is a thinker. You 
would love to talk to him.” 

“I!” Katrine’s indignation was extreme. 

“You would, if you did not know his medical history. 
He is just your sort.” 

“Thank you, Harding.” 

“My dear, try to remember that he is a man, perhaps 


234 “ QUACK ! ” 

extra-handicapped by nature in a certain respect—I think 
that may be so, judging by his physical type: and that you 
are a woman with an unusual degree of self-control. You 
must make allowance.” 

“But how can a man so intelligent-” 

“Don’t ask me that, Rina.” 

She knew what her husband referred to, and passed it 
over. “You would like to save this man, Harry.” 

“Yes, I should. But that isn’t the point. The point is, 
what is his possible value to the community to offset his 
weaknesses?” 

“He doesn’t seem to have made much use of his powers 
up to date, if he is forty-five and none of you had ever heard 
his name.” 

“No. But I don’t know that he has been writing all his 
life. From what he said I fancy he has only written 
intermittently.” 

“It doesn’t seem much of a reason for saving him, Harry.” 

“There was Snappy.” 

Katrine reflected. The precedent was a good one, and she 
had found arguments for Hurcey. 

“That is fair. We did save Snappy. But then, Snappy 
is only three or four years older than I am, and moreover 
he wasn’t married.” 

“I really don’t think you ought to condemn this chap 
because he is a married man, Rina. If you had met his wife, 
you wouldn’t.” 

“You are very hard on that poor woman. She must 
have suffered terribly.” 

“No doubt she has. But we aren’t discussing her case. 
What is certain in my mind is that he bears with her fussi¬ 
ness like a man—just as he bears the excruciating torments 



TWO ASPECTS 


235 


arising from his condition. The nurse almost adores him.” 

Katrine said to herself: “The kind of man who is charm¬ 
ing to everyone except his wife.” She tried again to find 
arguments in his favour and couldn’t. No good woman 
could. 

“I want to be fair, Harry. I am trying to be perfectly 
fair-” 

“I am sure you are.” 

“But is it really very valuable to the community just to 
think beautiful and striking thoughts, if you live as a liber¬ 
tine? If everybody behaved in that way—just doing what 
they liked, indulging themselves in selfish pleasures at 
no matter what cost to others, and then riding off on 
phrases-” 

“It takes all sorts to make a world, Rina. And he doesn’t 
ride off, in the sense of trying to belittle his fault. ‘The 
soul that sinneth it shall die.’ He quoted that against him¬ 
self.” 

“I think he is right there.” 

Harding saw that this meant she was making up her mind 
to an adverse verdict. He made a last effort. “Ought we 
to let him go, Rina?” 

“I think so.” 

“Don’t you think we might give him another chance?” 
“No.” 

“But if he heartens people up as he did me-” 

“By talk. His actions condemn him.”—An idea occurred 
to her.-^-“The only solid argument in his favour is one you 
have not brought forward. He has refrained, as far as we 
know, from bringing a child into the world.” 

Harding felt guilty. “But, Rina, there is a child.” 

Katrine was indignant. “You never told me!” 


236 


“ QUACK ! ” 


“I didn’t think of it. The child is twelve—a girl—looks 
healthy enough. The mother talked about tuberculous 
glands, and asked me to examine the neck. I don’t think she 
had any idea of cadging—just fussiness. There was no sign 
of anything wrong.” 

“But he could not possibly know that his child would be 
healthy.” 

“I don’t see that he had any reason to think otherwise. 
It was five or six years after his marriage, and he was quite 
all right then.” 

But Katrine would have none of it. John Harding Fullar 
lay in his cradle upstairs, and . . . 

“If we mothers do not try resolutely to discourage men 
from bringing possibly diseased children into the world, 
how can we ever improve the race? I have tried to be fair 
—I really have-” 

“I know you have, dear.” 

“Nothing more to say?” 

“No.” 

“You can still save him if you like, you know. But as 
far as I am concerned-” 

She threw out her left hand with the thumb downwards, 
averting her head, as though the action gave her pain—as 
indeed it did. 

Harding said: “Cur adv. vult .” (“The court wishes to 
take advice”) meaning that he intended to make use of the 
right he had, according to the rules, of reconsidering the 
question. It was Katrine herself who had insisted on this. 
The consultation was over now, but as Harding sat staring 
into the fire, his thoughts obviously still occupied with it, 
she went on thinking of it too. 

“You cannot make a healthy man of him.” 




TWO ASPECTS 


237 


To her amazement, the casual observation transformed 
the earnest, thoughtful consultant, the quiet-mannered, sober 
husband, into a living volcano that sprang to its feet, 
towered over her, and thundered: 

“You, too? You dare say that to me—you?” 

She was dumbfounded. She looked up at him in speech¬ 
less terror, her world rocking. The room seemed to sway. 

He turned abruptly away, and the movement was like 
the shutting off of an intolerable heat and glare. The room 
steadied itself. 

She felt sick—She was shaking all over. 

He was at the writing-table, with his back to her. 

Something within her asserted itself. She rose. Her 
knees trembled, but she went to him bravely. It was a 
dignified figure that said to his back: 

“Was that addressed to the little M.B., or to your wife?” 

He swung round instantly. “I have grossly insulted a 
colleague, and I apologise unreservedly.” 

The distinction was a fine one. “The little M.B.” was the 
nickname she had given herself for consultation purposes. 
Actually, they had finished the consultation before she made 
her unlucky remark: but in doing so, she informally pro¬ 
longed it. 

“Thank you, dear. I recognise that I had no right to 
say what I did.” 

“Nor I to resent it so violently. I feel ashamed—shout¬ 
ing like a madman.” 

“I was afraid you would wake Jacky. But I don’t think 
you have.” 

Harding, although a keen father, passed Jacky over.—“I 
don’t put it forward as an excuse, Rina—there could be 
none—but Mallerson said the same thing to me today, and 


238 


“ QUACK ! ” 


I resented it. I didn’t eat him, although I felt inclined to, 
and therefore I had even less justification for eating you.” 

He walked slowly back to his chair. 

Katrine followed him.—“You were quite right to reprove 
me. No one knows what you can do except yourself.” 

He looked at her gravely. “That is not quite true, dear. 
No one knows what I can do—not even myself. That is 
what bothers me about this poor chap. I know I can patch 
him up, but I’m not sure whether—I won’t think about him 
any more now. Let’s forget it.” 

She was standing by his chair. He lifted her on to his 
knee. “I am very sorry, darling.” 

She put her arms round his neck. “You frightened me 
—you are so big and strong.” 

He kissed her, fondled her. “Now tell me about your 
compliment.” 

Katrine sat up and began with shining eyes: “I went 
today to see Mary Courtenay. We chatted, and Mary said: 
‘You are a much-honoured woman, Katrine. The book is 
very good, and the dedication delightful.’ I did not know 
what she meant. She said: ‘I thought you would be sure 
to know’—and showed me this.” 

She ran across the room and picked up the book she had 
been reading. As she came back, she opened it and pre¬ 
sented the third page to Harding. 

“Now, sir—read that.” She resumed her place on his 
knee. Harding read. They both held the book. 

“To Katrine nee-Carstairs.” 

Dear Lady or Angel, 

(You must be one or the other—unless, in your 
quaint phrase, you are “dead as dead”) . . . 


own 


TWO ASPECTS 


239 


“It is now over twenty years since I met you on a fair 
morning amid the roses at Baildon. You began the con¬ 
versation by saying: T suppose you came last night?’ I 
said that Mr. Worsley had brought me down with him. You 
asked: ‘Do you write books, like he does?’ I admitted 
that I wrote books, but pleaded that they were not like 
Worsley’s; mine were about people. Whereupon you re¬ 
marked: T wish you would write a book about me.’ I said 
that might be quite a good idea, but I did not know what 
to put in it. You proceeded to tell me about your kitten, 
your pony, your tricycle, and various other means of 
diversion, also giving me, with a graphicness that was 
embarrassing, your notions as to your relations to other 
persons in the house and their relations to one another. I 
did not see my way all at once to deal with this variety of 
matter, and in order to prolong the conversation I told you 

a story about a little girl who-. You seemed to be 

interested, and observed when I had done: ‘That would 
make quite a good book. Will you write it?’ I replied 
that perhaps I would, sometime. You said: ‘If you do, 
will you send me a copy, and not forget to put inside, 
“Katrine Carstairs, from her friend the author.” I said: 
‘Better than that, the book shall be dedicated to you.’ 

“Now I must make confession. In telling you that story I 
was guilty of impertinence. I had no right to inflict A 
Fable With A Moral on a lady merely because she hap¬ 
pened to be twelve years my junior: and it is an ill-bred 
trick to criticise, however indirectly, one’s hosts. For— 
have you guessed?—the little girl who—was, or I hoped 
would be, yourself. Dear Katrine, will you pardon me? I 
have written the story of The Girl Who, and I dedicate it 
to you.— The Author.” 



240 “ QUACK ! ” 

“Isn’t he a perfect dear to remember his promise all these 
years? It is just what he would do.” 

“You remember him, then?” 

“Certainly I remember him.” 

Harding turned over a few pages. “Is this the same 
story he told you in the garden?” 

“I should not have recognised it. I remember the garden 
story—almost word for word, I think.” 

“Tell it, and then I’ll read the book.” 

Katrine began: “ ‘There was once a little girl who had 
it in her to become a rose.’ ” She broke off. “I demurred 
to this, saying: ‘But could she?’ and he explained that 
many little girls both could and did become roses. I was 
impressed by that. Then he went on: ‘She wasn’t allowed 
to choose the stem on which she would grow in the big 
garden where there were many rose-trees and other sorts of 
plants, and as it happened she found herself on a none-too- 
healthy stem in none-too-wholesome soil. Also some of the 
plants round about were not altogether favourable to her 
prospects. She didn’t find this out until she had grown quite 
big, but when she did, she made up her mind that she would 
be as beautiful a rose as might be, and thereafter she drew 
from God’s bracing winds and cleansing rains and what 
bursts of sunshine there were, all the strength she could. 
She succeeded, by means of immense perseverance, in be¬ 
coming quite a presentable specimen of the kind of rose she 
belonged to.’ ” Katrine broke off again to say, smiling: 
“I remember interrupting to ask what kind of rose she was, 
because I knew the names of many—all our roses at Baildon 
were labelled with metal tablets. He said: ‘Pulchra 
Anglica.’ I didn’t know any Latin then.” 

Harding smiled too. “What a memory you have!” 


TWO ASPECTS 


241 


“There is a special reason for my remembering this.” 
“What?” 

“I will tell you presently. Let me finish the story; per¬ 
haps, then, I shall not need to tell you.—‘When she had 
opened out her petals and was blooming at her best, a man 
came along and looked at her. She saw that he admired 
her, and rather hoped that he would pick her. She knew 
that in the ordinary course of things she would be picked, 
and she liked this man. If she hadn’t, she would have stuck 
out her thorns when he bent over her to find out if she was 
fragrant as well as attractive to look at, and pricked his 
nose.’—That made me laugh.—‘He did pick her—she was 
rather frightened at the moment, but when she found her¬ 
self securely pinned to his coat, just above his heart, she 
was almost perfectly happy for a time. Then, clouds began 
to drift across the sun, which had been shining its brightest 
when she was picked, and there was a cold breeze. Her 
petals withered a little—and then a little—and then still a 
little more, until they had lost their first fragrance and 
beauty. She didn’t know what to do when she found this 
out. She had known that after being picked roses lost their 
freshness, but she very much wanted to retain hers, and 
now she found she couldn’t, she didn’t know what to do— 
she couldn’t bear the thought that eventually her petals 
would be scattered by the chilly breezes and lost. So she 
hid them in his heart—laid them away for sanctuary, hoping 
—very much hoping—that they would remain there safely 
until the heart was cold.’ ” 

Katrine paused, and Harding saw that her eyes were 
misty. He felt emotion too. 

“Was that the end?” 

“The end of the story. But of course I wanted to know 


242 


“ QUACK ! » 


whether I could become a rose, and he said yes, he thought 
I might, if I tried hard enough.” 

There was a silence. Harding put a hand to Katrine’s 
averted face and turned it towards him. 

“Yes,” she said. “I thought of it then—in my lonely 
nights. It seemed to have been prophetic. But also, dear, 
I had thought of it many times before. It is scarcely over¬ 
stating the case to say that that story made me what I am 
—what I am that is worth anything. I didn’t, of course, 
think much about it for years—it just came into my head 
occasionally. It only became a precious possession after my 
Snappy lunacy passed off—it was not until then that I saw 
what it meant. I determined that I would do all I could to 
become a rose in spite of Anna and the filth and rotten¬ 
ness that I was surrounded by. If when you came along I 

was rose-y enough to attract you, sir, you owe it to-” 

she touched the book, which lay open on Harding’s knee, 
with her finger. 

“Hm.” Harding was taking it up when she prevented 
him by laying her hand on his as she said, with a laughing 
face and bright eyes: 

“He was a very nice man, too. And I don’t know— 
there was only twelve years between us, and that isn’t much 
more than between you and me—I don’t know whether, if 
he had come along again about the time you did”—she 
corrected herself—“before you did, and had wanted me, I 
should be here now.” 

“Indeed, madam?” 

“Yes, sir. He was as nice as all that.” She sighed as 
she slipped off her husband’s knee. “He must be a heavenly 
dear to live with.—Now I am going up to see if John 
Harding Fullar is O.K., and you can read.” 



TWO ASPECTS 


243 


Harding did not look at the book for some time. He 
stared straight before him. He was thinking of his patient, 
Roger Quarrant—of the wasted life, the trivial use of such 
brilliant powers, the want of self-control. In a way, 
Katrine was right. He had been of no real use to the world. 

His mind passed to the other man—the man who had 
written the book that lay on his knee—the so-widely dif¬ 
ferent man, who had imbued Katrine with the impulse to 
hold on to the good, spurred her to the effort which had 
been the immediate cause of his falling in love with her. 
In the most difficult period of life—adolescence—the recol¬ 
lection had been to her a pillar of smoke by day and a 
guiding light in dark hours. Even lately—since they were 
married—it had helped her in a difficult pass—helped him, 
Harding, too, indirectly. 

He thought again of his patient. “I’ll give the poor 
devil another chance—I won’t make up my mind until I go 
to bed.” 

He lifted the book and looked at the back of it. 


THE 

GIRL WHO 

• • • 

ROGER QUARRANT 





CHAPTER X 


Not Proven 

The last patient on the list had been so precipitate as to 
quit the world just before the time fixed for Mr. Harding 
Fullar to assist in concerting measures to keep him in it. 
Mr. Fullar, informed of the fact when he arrived at the 
house, found himself with an hour to occupy. On any 
other day he would have filled it by seeking Jacky, now 
three, and creating disorder in the nursery: Roger, the baby, 
was too new to interest his father otherwise than profes¬ 
sionally. But on this particular day Harding was indisposed 
to romp: earlier in the afternoon he had met the pick of 
the London medical faculty over another patient, and in 
consequence he felt bound to consult with his wife; and 
the wife of the patient over whom they had to consult was 
Katrine’s closest friend. 

Katrine had known John Holden prior to his marriage, 
and had disliked him—firstly, because he was one of her 
grandfather’s moneyed associates; secondly, because he 
seemed to have no ideas except in connection with business; 
thirdly, because Anna, out of malice, had thrown her at his 
head; fourthly, because—perhaps in consequence—he had 
behaved like a bear. Therefore, when he married a nobody 
from nowhere,* and nobody was invited to the wedding, 
which took place from Julia Warington’s house—Julia be¬ 
ing an intimate of Katrine’s—there was every possible 
reason for Katrine to dislike Janet Holden: and recipro¬ 
cally: whereas, they made friends at sight. 

* See The Magnate. 


244 


NOT PROVEN 


245 


The explanation lay partly in the fact that Julia Waring- 
ton was a wise woman. She had taken a liking to Janet 
when Janet stayed with her the night before the wedding; 
she wanted Katrine and Janet to be friends when the 
honeymooners returned to London; so she said nothing 
about it. Praise new friend Dick to old friend Tom, and 
Tom will be prejudiced in Dick’s favour: but praise new 
friend Sue to old friend Kate, and—well, you’ll see. 

In the meantime Katrine heard. You can’t live in London 
without hearing. John Holden had taken his wife out of the 
gutter. “She was a waitress in a tea-shop.” “No, dear, a 
barmaid.” “Reggie Branksome says that she was in the 
chorus of a cheap touring company. Mr. Holden picked 
her up in the provinces.” “I was told it was worse than 
that” (whispers). “Oh, dinkums, really?”—Also, gossip 
blew over from the Riviera. Mrs. Holden had behaved 
scandalously. “She just went on after marriage as she had 
done before.” 

As Janet had stayed with Julia, and Julia evidently liked 
her, Katrine did not believe any of this, and, after her man¬ 
ner, said so. Julia opened her mouth about that, to Janet. 
When they met, Janet thanked Katrine—not in words. 
Within a week they were using Christian names, and within 
a month Janet, in her impulsive fashion, had told Katrine 
why she worshipped her husband. This led Katrine to 
change her opinion of John Holden. She could not be 
quite natural in his presence; she had to refrain from 
lucindying, for instance-—John would have frowned blackly 
and forbidden Janet to have any more to do with her: but 
she came to like him, to think him a good fellow. 

Harding, when he became acquainted with the Holdens 
as a result of his engagement to Katrine, did not share her 


246 


44 QUACK ! ” 


liking for them. The consciousness of power which Holden 
unconsciously betrayed in the absent-mindedness of his 
manner, and the curtness of his speech, irritated Harding. 
What was the fellow, that he should put on such airs? Merely 
an unusually successful business man. Nor did Hard¬ 
ing take to Janet. She was too flamboyant for his taste, 
both in looks and in her way of doing things. He recognised 
later that she did try to make the world better, in her own 
way, and that John had a marvellous brain and some 
estimable qualities: but Janet’s way of trying to improve 
the world was in Harding’s eyes sloppy and unscientific, 
and John’s mental attitude to anything which impinged 
upon social amelioration was antagonistic: they differed 
so profoundly that they found it hard to talk to each other. 

So Harding and Katrine had never seen eye to eye about 
the Holdens, and there had been something near a battle 
royal when Jacky was to be christened, over the question of 
a godfather. The name John had been chosen after Hard¬ 
ing’s father and Katrine’s grandfather jointly: both were 
dead. 

“Then it shall be John Holden,” said Katrine. 44 I am 
sure he will consent if I ask him.” 

The suggestion of patronage flicked Harding on the raw. 
44 No doubt he would, and probably he would send baby a 
solid gold bath-tub or something plutocratic: but I don’t 
want people to think that my son is named after him.” 

“Why not, Harry? Merely because he is a multi¬ 
millionaire?” 

Harding repudiated this, but found it difficult to say 
exactly why not. So Katrine had her way, and John Holden 
stood sponsor for John Harding at the font. 

Now Harding told West to drive to the Embankment. 


NOT PROVEN 


247 


Arrived there, he stopped the car, got out, and told West 
to go home. 

He was glad of the chance to think before he met Katrine. 
He wanted to consider the case before he presented it to her. 
He was certain that she would say there could be no question 
about it, and if her verdict were favourable, he must, if he 
could, restore John Holden in a few months to the world of 
business which he would otherwise almost certainly never 
rejoin. Harding would have been willing to do so if it 
could have been compassed by ordinary means. But it 
could not. Why should he give John Holden the benefit of 
the extraordinary means which he, alone, held in his hands? 

As the spring sun sank towards Chelsea Reach he walked 
homeward thoughtfully. When he came within sight of his 
house, he saw that the front door was open, and his three- 
year-old son mounting the steps by lifting first one gaitered 
leg and then the other high in the air, bringing the feet down 
with a bang and a shriek of delight. Blue-coated nurse 
followed. 

John Harding Fullar entered the hall, took up position on 
the rug by the fire with his feet planted wide apart, and 
embarked on his come-back-from-walk routine. 

“G’oves-” he held his arms out stiffly at full length. 

Nurse pulled off the gloves. 

“Hat—” he bent his neck forward. 

Nurse took off his hat. 

“Coat-” 

She unbuttoned the coat and drew it off. 

“You lazy little sinner!” came in Katrine’s clear voice 
from the top of the stairs. “Why do you dance attendance 
on him still, nurse? He could take off his things himself, 


now. 




248 “ QUACK ! ” 

No whit perturbed, John Harding said: “Gaits-” and 

stuck out a leg. Nothing would shift him from an estab¬ 
lished routine: in such respects, he was like his father. 

He answered her, however. 

“Mum-my-” 

“Yes, lazybird?” 

“Was Auntie Janet ky’in w’en you wented in this after¬ 
noon?” 

“No, dear. Auntie Janet is very brave.” 

“Ain’t she so’wy for Uncle John?” 

“Yes, dear, very sorry.” 

“But you kyed when I was ill because you was so’wy 
for me.” 

“Then I was a silly woman. Daddy didn’t ky, did he?” 

“No.” 

“What did daddy do?” 

“He maked me well.” 

There was a curious sound from the top of the stairs— 
it might have been a laugh. 

“Can’t daddy make Uncle John well, mummy?” 

“I don’t know, dear; I hope so.” 

“I hope so, ’cos then p’r’aps he’ll give me a lec-tric 
wailway next Kismas to go wif the steam one.” 

“You mercenary little rascal!” Katrine ran downstairs, 
knelt, and took the rascal in her arms. She looked up to 
find her husband in the hall. 

“Well?” 

“Not now, Rina—later.” 

She wondered a little. 

Katrine went upstairs after dinner a few moments before 
Harding, and sat down. She did not, however, take up a 
book or her work of the moment: Harding found her sitting 




NOT PROVEN 


249 


with her hands clasped round her knees, staring at the 
fire. He sat down. 

There was a silence. 

“Tell me,” said Katrine without moving. She had been 
thinking of Janet. 

Harding began deliberately: “The case is in some re¬ 
spects typical and in others exceptional. A boy with what 
is popularly called a good constitution goes to business at 
sixteen. He is extremely keen, and for twenty-five years 
leads a laborious and simple life. It is to be noted that he 
labours only mentally, and takes comparatively little exer¬ 
cise. He then marries, and his whole mode of life is 
changed. Instead of simple food, he eats rich food; instead 
of working, he idles about with his wife; and there is the 
physical aspect of marriage to be considered—at any rate 
in his case. I don’t think Holden bothered much with 
women before he married.” 

“I know he didn’t. He was like you, dear.” 

Harding passed this over. “I don’t need to dwell on it 
—you know as well as I do that it involves a far-reaching 
change in the economy of the body. Quite possibly, if 
Holden had maintained this new mode of life, a new 
equilibrium would have established itself. But he didn’t. 
After a year or so of idleness and over-feeding, he returned 
to active business. I understand that for years now he 
has been at the office every day by ten, and rarely left it 
before five—except of course, on Saturdays and Sundays.” 

“I think that is so.” 

“Very well. Now, many people might say?—Ten to 
five? and half an hour for lunch out of it? That isn’t over¬ 
working.’ But in his case, it is, because he works at 
lightning speed—that is one of the secrets of his success. 


250 


“ QUACK ! ” 


I have heard Amiel say that Holden looks at a telegram 
involving a big deal, or an important decision of some kind, 
frowns for ten seconds, and says: ‘No,’ or ‘Yes,’ or ‘Cable 
so-and-so.’ It sounds simple. But is it? What goes on in 
his brain during those ten seconds? A profound and wide- 
reaching weighing up of all sorts of factors, often, probably, 
a series of complicated calculations representing the swift 
operations of a calculating machine. But even machines 
wear out, and a man’s brain is not a machine. Moreover, in 
thus resuming his former labours after a longish break, he 
does not carry them on under the old conditions. He still 
eats the rich food-” 

“Are you not over-emphasising that, dear?” 

“I don’t think so. I heard him say once, with a laugh, 
that as a bachelor he had sandwiches for lunch and a chop 
for dinner five days out of seven, but as a married man he 
fed on the luxuries of the earth.” 

“I think he was exaggerating.” 

“Well, I don’t know. Janet likes a good meal.” 

“Yes, she does.” 

“I don’t want to over-emphasise the separate importance 
of the difference in food, Rina, but the differences in his life 
when he went back to business were, I think, cumulatively 
important. For instance, he formerly drank less alcohol—a 
glass of sherry with the sandwich-lunch, and a half-pint of 
beer with the evening chop, was the rule. Exceptionally, he 
might drink a whisky-and-soda before going to bed, and 
when he went out to dinner or to stay with friends, or when 
he was abroad, wine. But he was very moderate in his 
habits. Since, although he has kept to the glass of sherry 
during the day, it has been claret or champagne at dinner 
every night, very often a glass or two of port after, and 



251 


NOT PROVEN 

a large liqueur brandy with his coffee. I don’t intend to 
imply that he has exceeded what is generally considered 
a reasonable limit. But the change counts. Among the 
well-to-do classes, the commonest cause of disease, apart 
from infections, is auto-toxication due to the excessive use 
of narcotics and stimulants, coupled with abuse of the 
digestive system. Holden has always been a heavy cigar- 
smoker, by the way.” 

“I see, dear.” 

“Also, instead of the regular quiet meal at his club and 
bed at half-past ten, as a rule he has either gone out to 
dinner with his wife or there has been a dinner-party at 
home; and, very often, a theatre or some social function 
afterwards—not infrequently both. Janet has enjoyed her¬ 
self, you know—she hasn’t hid her light under a bushel.” 

Katrine was pained. “Please don’t sneer, Harry. She is 
a friend.” 

“Oh, quite. This is medical. I only mean that she hasn’t 
spared Holden in that way. Admit it, Rina.” 

After a pause, Katrine said: “I suppose it is so.” 

“You know it is so. There has been a progressive ex¬ 
haustion of the functional reserves at a time of life when a 
call upon them should be avoided. First, the digestive 
system went wrong. He wouldn’t see a doctor, of course— 
bought peppermint and bismuth, and patent medicines that 
friends in the City told him about. Why is it that people 
who scoff at doctors are nearly always ready to follow the 
advice of someone who, they must be aware, certainly 
doesn’t know one-tenth as much about medicine as even a 
self-taught quack?” 

Katrine smiled faintly. “Don’t scold me for it, dear.” 

Harding laughed. “One for you, M.B.” He went into 


252 te QUACK ! * 

technicalities.—“Finally, a surgical intervention, and the 
removal of—what?” 

“Janet told me.” 

“Did she? Then I wish she would tell me.” 

“Surely it was an adenoma that Mr. McNaughten 
removed.” 

“I will tell you what he removed—he removed the evi¬ 
dence, and destroyed it.” 

“Sorry, dear.” Katrine had been speaking loosely when 
she knew that Harding was speaking exactly. She loved 
him in this phase, when he was the cautious diagnostician, 
angry with slap-dash practitioners who had made his 
task unnecessarily difficult. He was fuming now over 
McNaughten’s delinquency. “Why the devil didn’t he 
preserve the excised part? He says that he is certain the 
tumour was glandular in structure. I doubt it.—Well, the 
prognosis is that the patient will probably succumb, 
unless-” 

“Yes?” 

“Unless we give him the reserved treatment.” 

“Give it him, then.” 

Harding had to make an effort to say: “You have only 
had the medical, Rina.” 

Katrine went pale. She turned her head and looked at 
him fixedly. 

“Are we consulting?” 

“Certainly.” 

“You never said so. But-” she jumped up, and her 

eyes almost sparkled as she cried: “This is my answer!” and 
thrust two upturned thumbs under his nose. 

“That won’t do, Rina.” 

“But, Harry-” 






NOT PROVEN 


253 


“It won’t do. You must hear the other side.” 

“He is Janet’s man.” Katrine’s level utterance vibrated 
with passion. “Surely you would not condemn him to 
death because you do not agree with him on political 
questions?” 

“That is not fair. I never condemn anybody to death. 
I do my best for all my patients on the basis of medical 
science as it exists, like any other doctor. We only apply 
a certain criterion to those whose chance of recovery appears 
slender unless we give them the benefit of a treatment which 
is still in the experimental stage: that criterion is to be 
applied to Holden just the same as to anybody else—is it 
likely to advantage the community if we extend his life?” 

Katrine went back to her chair. Harding did not speak. 
She gathered her forces.—“To me, it does not admit of 
question. John represents an integrating force.” 

“Integrating for whose benefit? Only for his own.” 

“Oh, no. A man who organises businesses, as he does, so 
that more commodities are produced, is a world-benefactor.” 

“If he is, it is merely incidental. His own definition 
doesn’t include any reference to benefiting anybody but 
himself. I have heard him state it: T am in business to 
make profits.’ He didn’t thump the table with his fist, 
but he produced the same effect as if he had.” 

“It does not follow that the benefit to others is not there 
because he does not aim at it.” 

“True. But if it is incidental, what guarantee have we 
that it will continue? In that case it is merely a result of 
conditions. Conditions change—are changing. Quite pos¬ 
sibly, in a few years’ time, Holden’s wonderful activities 
may involve damage instead of benefit to the community. 
It will be all one to him, as long as he gets his profits. And 


254 “ QUACK ! ” 

he is only fifty-two, Rina—he may live to be an old man 
if-” 

Katrine cried out in agony: “I can’t bear it! He is 
Jack’s godfather—didn’t you hear what Jack said in the 
hall this afternoon? I could never look Janet in the face 
again if I—we—had not done our utmost.” 

Harding was relentless. “Then—you wish me to decide 
alone?” 

Katrine turned still paler. “You would decide adversely?” 

“I might. At the present moment I think probably I 
should, but I have not had the advantage of hearing what my 
colleague has to say.” 

That steadied her. She knew that her contribution so 
far had been emotional, and sentiment was barred. She had 
originated the rule herself, after Hurcey’s case. To save 
John Holden, she must meet argument with argument. 
There was terror in her heart, for she knew that Harding’s 
attack would be pushed home. There would be no gain¬ 
saying him except by convincing him that he was not alto¬ 
gether in the right. Otherwise, he would bear her down. 
She stifled her pain, thrust her sympathy for Janet out of 
sight, and braced herself for battle. 

“State your view.” 

“Interrupt whenever you want to.—Premising that there 
is nothing against him in regard to his private life, although 
as far as I know nothing particular in his favour, Holden’s 
type is out of date. The captain of labour, the organiser of 
industries, the genius at financial combinations, has served 
his purpose unless he works not merely with an eye to his 
own but also to the national interest.” 

“But doesn’t John? I heard someone say—someone 
who knew—was it Uncle Lyon?—that if John Holden were 



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to transfer himself and his capital to America, New York 
might become the world financial center instead of London.” 

“Possibly. I made a mistake in using the word ‘national.’ 
I believe Holden would refuse to make such a move even if 
it would be immensely profitable to him personally. He is 
very patriotic.” 

“Very.” 

“I ought to have said ‘to the general interest.’ My view 
has nothing whatever to do with the way in which the 
peoples of the world are boxed into compartments labelled 
with a name and a flag. It applies, pro rata, to every nation 
according to the degree in which its industries are organised. 
My view is broadly this. Those who work with their hands, 
and those who work with their heads at routine jobs, have 
not had a square deal in the last sixty or seventy years from 
the directors and controllers.” 

“You haven’t become a Socialist, have you, dear?” 

“Of course not. Socialism only means the present system 
with little men in control who would get there by political 
manoeuvres, instead of big men who get there by the right 
of the fittest.” 

“You admit that John is a big man, then?” 

“Certainly.” 

“And that he is where he is because he can do what others 
cannot?” 

“Undoubtedly.” 

“Well?” 

“The point is, as I see it, that his day is over. The time 
has come when the manual workers and the routine workers 
mean to have a square deal. And if they don’t get it for the 
asking—of course they know they will have to ask persis¬ 
tently—they will take it by force.” 


256 


“ QUACK ! ” 


“What do you mean by a square deal?” 

“I mean this. When trade is good, companies put away 
money for the equalisation of dividends, don’t they?” 

“If they are well managed.” 

“Why don’t they put away money for the equalisation 
of wages?” 

Katrine could find no answer. Harding pressed his 
advantage. 

“Ever heard of it?” 

“No—except that unemployment insurance is a move in 
that direction.” 

“A drop in the bucket. The rule is, when prices go up, 
wages follow them at a respectful distance. Meantime, 
employer and capitalist benefit. Prices fall, and down come 
wages to a level which enables employers to make profits 
again. For Mr. Workman and Mr. Clerk, it is heads you 
win and tails we lose.” 

“Is that correct? Surely there are periods in which 
employers have to run their businesses at a loss. I have 
heard John himself say-” 

“Occasionally, it does happen. But there is a lot of hum¬ 
bug about it. When Holden and the other big men think 
wages are too high, orders are issued, and the companies 
they control show a convenient loss. The men whose wages 
are to be cut are not allowed to audit the accounts, you 
know.” 

“Are you not being extreme? Is it fair to say that the 
accounts are cooked?” 

“I didn’t say cooked. But accountancy is an art, Rina. 
The result shown in a profit and loss account depends on 
how certain items are treated. Depreciation, for instance: 
loss on stocks in times of falling prices: valuation of debts: 



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all that kind of thing. What I mean can be done, and it 
is done.” 

“You seem to me one-sided. For instance, you speak of 
the capitalist benefiting along with the employer, whether 
prices rise or fall. We are both capitalists. I don’t find it 
so, on the average. Do you? Look at the drop in Consols 
since we were married.” 

“That has come about because the rate of profit on com¬ 
mercial capital has increased. We have had larger divi¬ 
dends on our industrial investments. And, of course, the 
manipulators of capital—Holden and his like—take the 
cream; we, as investors, only get the skim-milk.” 

“Well—go on to your next point.” 

“I return to the broader issue. Apart from the equal¬ 
isation of wages, there is the much bigger question of 
ensuring the manual worker and the routine man a fair 
share of the results of their labours.” 

“Don’t they get their fair share as it is?” 

“No. That can be proved in several ways—by the 
striking fact that in the last twenty years—since 1890— 
wages have risen less than prices: by the Income Tax 
Returns, which show that a larger proportion iof the 
national income is passing into the hands of the few as 
compared with the many. Where have all the colossal for¬ 
tunes come from that have been accumulated in the last 
twenty or thirty years?” 

“From many sources, in many parts of the world.” 

“Certainly. Capital is internationalised. But I don’t 
refer to that. Where has Holden’s fortune come from, 
Rina?” 

“He has made it himself—except about a quarter of a 
million which he inherited—so Janet says. But you mean 


258 “ QUACK f* 

that he has abstracted it, in a legal way, from profits pro¬ 
duced by others?” 

“That is part of what I mean.” 

“But don’t you allow anything for the results of his 
energy and ability? He is a wonderful organiser, you 
know. Amiel says-” 

“I know pretty much what Amiel says. He talks about 
Holden as if he were a Business-God—though, American 
fashion, he doesn’t kow-tow to him personally. I do allow 
for Holden’s abilities in that regard. I should make a very 
large allowance indeed, because I believe they are worth it. 
But he needn’t hog. And he does hog. He hogs, broadly, 
all he can. He says to everybody: ‘You will have to pay 
more for this or that’—and there is no appeal. I wonder, 
for instance, how much he has actually had out of us for 
petrol during the last year or two, if we could trace it.” 

“You charge rich people pretty stiff fees, Mr. Harding 
Fullar—so I have heard.” 

“Patients pay according to their means, but only up to a 
fair rate in accordance with one’s knowledge and skill. 
We don’t hog it in the profession. Why should business 
men behave differently? Suppose I were allowed by the 
ethics of my profession to do as Holden does, what then? I 
could say: ‘Here you are! Here’s life for you!—How much 
is it? How much have you got?’ Suppose I were to give 
Holden a bit of his own back now? Suppose I went over 
to Park Lane, and said to him: ‘I can prolong your life for 
twenty years. In those twenty years you will make at least 
twenty million pounds. Hand over ten millions, and I’ll 
give you the treatment.’ Why don’t I? Because I am—or 
try to be—a decent member of a commonwealth, not a 
robber chief masquerading as a public benefactor.” 



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“Don’t be abusive. He doesn’t masquerade.” 

“No—he doesn’t. It was you said he was a public bene¬ 
factor. I withdraw.” 

“Accepted—on his behalf. Continue.” 

“Why shouldn’t he and others like him recognise that 
they ought to have some similar rule to ours? If they did, 
we could put things to rights in next to no time, com¬ 
paratively speaking. But they don’t—and they won’t. So, 
how are the workers going to get their square deal?” 

“By some kind of profit-sharing, I suppose.” 

“That might be one way. Cooperation another. But 
Holden will have none of either. As to profit-sharing, he 
says—he said it one night after dinner, when you and Janet 
had gone up—‘If you begin to share profits with the work¬ 
people, you might as well give them the company at once.’ 
As to cooperation, he sneers at it as a mere dodge to enable 
a camarilla to run a limited company without interference 
from the shareholders—because, according to him, the only 
instance of a successful cooperative undertaking is the 
C.W.S.—the Cooperative Wholesale Society—and he says, 
that is neither more nor less than a limited company with a 
large number of small shareholders who happen to be its 
customers. The employees—according to him—don’t co¬ 
operate at all. He may be right about C.W.S. But he is 
certainly wrong when he asserts that it is the only instance 
of a successful cooperative undertaking. You know where 
I got most of my apparatus from?” 

“Yes.” 

“They are the best firm in the world, in point of quality 
and finish. I won’t say that they are always ahead in 
designing new instruments. The Americans sometimes beat 
us in that respect. But all round I would rather have their 


260 


“ QUACK ! ” 


things than any American firm’s. Why? Cooperation. It 
is a cooperative factory. When I went over it, I said to one 
old bird—he was a polisher—‘How is it you can produce 
such beautiful things here?’ He said: ‘Well, sir, we help 
each other.’ ” 

“That was a fine answer.” 

“Yes. And, Rina—it’s coming. It’s bound to come. 
The only question is—do we let this great organic change 
in industry force itself through, or help it through? Do 
we try to guide, or resist it until it sweeps us away?” 

“Whom do you mean by ‘we’?” 

“All the intelligent and honest men and women in the 
British Isles.” 

“Can it be guided, if it is a great popular movement? 
Won’t it sweep us—the upper middle classes—away any¬ 
how?” 

“Not necessarily. The average British workman doesn’t 
believe all the guff that is handed out to him by his leaders 
and his would-be leaders. He has too much sense for that. 
What he really thinks about it is: ‘These chaps promise a 
lot, and maybe they’ll do summat. Nobody else will—not 
the employer class, anyhow. I’ll take it the way I can get 
it.’ And he is right. But when he thinks of the employer 
class, whom does he mean? He means John Holden and 
his like.” 

“But John always treats his people well. And he doesn’t 
patronize them. He is as true a democrat as ever lived. 
Do you know whom their boy is named after? An old 
fireman at the Sheffield foundry. Janet told me. I asked 
why. She said she met him just before she knew there was 
a baby coming. He was a fireman on their yacht then. And 
it seems he and Holden once had some kind of adventure 


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that this man Ackroyd told Janet of, and she admired him 
so much that when she knew about her baby she told John 
that, if it was a boy, she wished him to be named Thomas 
Ackroyd. John didn’t object. Ackroyd came up for the 
christening, and brought what he called a christening mug 
—blue and white earthenware. I think that is fine!” 

“Yes—as far as it goes. But it doesn’t go far enough. 
It’s getting out of date, Rina—not the human fellowship 
and good feeling—but as a substitute for wise concerted 
action that kind of thing is out of date. John Holden is 
an irreclaimable individualist. He stands for individualistic 
control in industry-” 

“You can’t run things by committees, Harry.” 

“I didn’t assert that you could. When I say individual¬ 
istic’ in that connection, I mean, with the primary and 
principal object of benefiting individuals and not the com¬ 
munity. That is Holden’s essential principle, and he abides 
by it—like a rock. Well, the rock is in the channel, Rina. 
And it will have to go.” 

Katrine pondered. “I am in a difficulty, Harry. I 
sympathise so largely with what you say that I find it hard 
to argue against you. But what has all this to do with our 
problem?” 

“Is it likely to be of advantage to the community if we 
deliberately cause him to live another twenty years or so? 
I say it isn’t—at least, I think I do—I am arguing on that 
line at present. We haven’t come to you yet.” 

“Go on as long as you like.” 

“I have nearly finished. To sum up—the man is an 
obstructionist. He won’t budge. He won’t move an inch, 
won’t meet anybody half-way, won’t do anything except 
just what he thinks best for himself.” 



262 “ QUACK ! ” 

“I do think you put that unfairly. He isn’t a selfish man 
at all. When Janet first spoke to him about her desire to do 
things for his workpeople, he said: ‘I can’t help you much, 
but I won’t hinder.’ His idea of not helping much is to 
let her have practically unlimited funds for her schemes.” 

“He would do that whatever she wanted the money for. 
—To continue. He won’t budge, and you can’t make him, 
because he is too powerful. Do you remember the story of 
his fighting some American financiers for the control of a 
railway? Amiel was talking about it one night, and he said 
that Holden used over a hundred millions sterling—the 
value of one year’s gold production of the entire world— 
more, I think. Rina, it’s dangerous: no one man ought to 
wield such power. If he does, he ought to wield it in the 
public interest, and not in his own. Tell that to Holden, 
and he’ll laugh. He looks at it the other way round. You 
say he is not selfish. Who caused the last engineering strike 
—the big one? He did. Why? Because, as he said, labour 
was getting uppish all over the country, and he knew that 
if the engineers struck he could beat them. So he pro¬ 
voked the strike, and he did beat them. I tell you, Rina, 
the man is quite as much a public danger as a public 
benefactor.” 

“You are very bitter.” 

“It makes me bitter.” Harding tried to recover a judicial 
temper. “Finally, we—you and I and thousands of others 
—are out to make the world a better place for people to 
live in, aren’t we? And we can do it, if we have time: 
but the time we have left to do it in is short. We must get 
on with it, or the mob will take the power into their own 
hands, and then everything will be reduced to ruins.” 

“Do you believe that, Harry? A few years ago, when 


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263 


you tried to save Geikle, you looked upon the possibility 
of revolution as remote.” 

“Things have changed since. The rabid element has 
grown in numbers and still more in influence. The extrem¬ 
ists have captured the Labour Party, and Trade Unionism is 
being merged in Socialism, with the Communists undermin¬ 
ing both. I doubt whether the Socialists could govern, if 
they attained to power: the tail wags the dog. Direct action 
will be tried, unless we stave it off, and it means civil war; 
all the fabric of orderly government, all the institutions 
built up by our partial cooperations, will collapse, and it 
will be fifty years, or more, before England gets back again 
even to her present imperfect state of civilisation. I don’t 
want Jack to inherit a worse world because his godfather is 
in the way. Holden out of the way might mean the differ¬ 
ence between a peaceful change and a revolution. I want 
Jack to inherit a better world. All our ideas tend in that 
direction, Rina. And we can do it, if we get our principles 
clear in our minds and then stick to them. Wells is right. 
He might write tosh sometimes, but he always comes back to 
the point. The destinies of the human race are in its own 
hands, and we in Great Britain are well-educated enough 
to have realised that fact—a sufficient number of us have. 
It rests with us, and you and I must play our part.” 

Katrine got up and went to the fireplace. Never had she 
heard him speak so earnestly and sincerely. It moved her. 
But she was no longer terror-struck at having to fight for 
John Holden: she was confident now. 

“As to John’s private life, you said there was nothing in 
his favour. I disagree strongly. He was only twenty-four 
when his father died and he inherited a handsome fortune; 
he had been brought up in a narrow way, and there would 


264 “ QUACK ! ” 

have been some excuse to be found for him if he had used 
his liberty to enjoy himself. He never did. He faced his 
responsibilities, and continued to devote himself to work.” 

“Because he likes it.” 

“Yes. But how many young men similarly placed do? 
His liking for work ought to count in his favour. Moreover, 
although he became a wealthy man when he was little past 
thirty, he still spent next to nothing on himself: how many 
millionaires are there of whom that could be said? His 
private record up to forty was really a fine one—all the 
finer, in my view, because he has not the higher inter¬ 
ests which keep a man of your type straight and clean.” 

“Pass on. I think this private record has only a negative 
value from our standpoint.” 

“I differ. Since he married, he has been more than a 
model husband. What Janet owes to his patience and for¬ 
bearance no one knows but herself. She gave me an inkling 
when she told me the outline of their story. John is a man 
in a million—pure gold—twenty-five carat.” 

“There isn’t such a thing.” 

“There is—in men. But there are very few of them. 
You have to take the fact that he is one from me, because I 
cannot tell you the story. You know, however, that he is 
devoted to her—a kind and loving husband.” 

“I should describe him as uxorious—extravagantly fond 
of, and indulgent to, his wife.” 

“His will is law for her.” 

“But he only exercises it in regard to his personal pre¬ 
dilections—trivial matters, mostly.” 

“He is a good father, according to his lights.” 

“But what are his lights, Rina, relatively to the point of 
this discussion? Tommy is to be educated along the stereo- 


NOT PROVEN 


265 


typed lines, to imbibe the traditional view that the world is 
the world, as it has always been, or has come to be, or 
muddled itself into being—that it can’t be changed, that it is 
rash and foolish to try to change it. There is nothing 
admirable in that. It is the merest conventionalism.” 

“I can only put in my view. You will have to take it into 
account.” 

“Oh, certainly.” 

“Now as to John’s business record up to date. When I 
said that he represented an integrating force, you replied 
that his motive was the desire for gain. That does not alter 
the fact that he has benefited tens of thousands of people 
beside himself. I don’t think you realise the value to the 
community of the genius for business organisation. Where 
would Port Sunlight be but for Sir William Lever? It 
would not exist. The same is true as to John of those 
places in America Amiel talks about, especially that town 
in Michigan—what’s the name of it? If John chose to be 
buried there, he might have inscribed on his tomb: 4 Si 
monumentum requiris, circumspice 9 : it would be appropriate 
in a deeper sense than it is for Wren in St. Paul’s. Admit 
that.” 

“I admit it with the qualification that he has only done 
such things incidentally.” 

“But he has done them.—You then plunged into the 
future, and predicated the possibility of a change in con¬ 
ditions which might make his activities harmful: the impli¬ 
cation being that therefore he is not to be credited with 
benefits admittedly accrued to others up to the present. It 
has always been our rule to take the record as it stood. 
You went behind that rule, tried to explain a favourable 
part of the record away.” 


266 


“ QUACK ! ” 


“The opening of the discussion was irregular: I was not 
altogether to blame for that.” 

“Granted. Now as to what you said about the probabili¬ 
ties. I make the same criticism. Our rule has been that we 
should base our view of the probabilities on the record. 
You began by saying that John’s type was out of date: 
what type has replaced it?” 

Harding was nonplussed. 

Katrine pushed her advantage. “What you meant was 
that it is going to be squeezed out. That may be, but it has 
not happened yet: it is only a possibility. You proceeded 
to adumbrate another possibility, larger and much vaguer; 
and then to treat it as if it were a certainty—the possibility 
of a wide and profound economic re-organization. I admit 
that such a change may come; but we don’t know when— 
whether in our lifetimes, or our children’s, or later. You 
seem to think it will be sooner rather than later-” 

“On the whole, I do.” 

“But you can’t know. And you used the argument against 
John that if his activities had benefited the world hitherto, 
it was merely the result of conditions which might prove 
temporary; I want to point out that the same argument 
applies to the whole problem of the status of the wage- 
earner. It may prove merely temporary.” 

“No, Rina. The problem is age-old.” 

“It is not, sir. It hardly goes back beyond the industrial 
period in England.” 

“The rich have always exploited the poor, whatever the 
industrial system was. In the feudal days-” 

“That is quite a different thing. I say that the problem 
of the proletariat in large-scale industries is purely a 
modern one: injustice has been wreaked under other sys- 



NOT PROVEN 


267 


terns, but that has nothing to do with the present-day prob¬ 
lem. Think it over.” 

“I see what you mean.” 

“That being so, isn’t it possible that the problem may dis¬ 
appear, and a re-organization of industry become un¬ 
necessary?” 

“How could that happen?” 

“By the setting in of a period of prosperity—world pros¬ 
perity—for instance. Or by a scientific discovery. Suppose 
some genius reveals tomorrow the means to derive unlimited 
motive power from the breaking-up of atoms? You are not 
the only bird in the bush.” 

“But would it benefit the many? Wouldn’t Holden and 
Co. hog the benefit of it—as they have done of invention 
and discovery in the past?” 

“Not entirely, by any means. The poor today enjoy 
what were luxuries only a century ago: the skilled workman 
lives as well, in his home, as the prosperous burgher of 
mediaeval times.” 

“Well, go on.” 

“My point is that you were not justified in arguing as 
though economic reconstruction is inevitable. You said in 
summing-up that John’s continued existence might make all 
the difference—that it might tip the balance, and there 
would be a revolution instead of a peaceful change. I think 
you exaggerate. But suppose it to be so. It is only a 
possibility, and you cannot put a man’s life into one scale 
and then bring the other down merely by piling possibilities 
into it. 

“Next, you talk of economic problems almost as if you 
knew all about them. Where did you get your knowledge 
from?” 


268 “ QUACK ! ” 

“Chiefly from reading. Bill Cresford has taught me 
something in the talks we have had when he has been here.” 

“What would you think if John, after reading a few books 
on medicine, and having a few discussions with a g.p., said 
that your methods were out of date, and that you were an 
obstacle to progress?” 

Harding was silent. 

“You would think it presumptuous, wouldn’t you?” 

“Probably. But the comparison is not quite fair. I am 
not setting up to be an authority on practical business 
management, in which Holden is admittedly a master.” 

“I do not suggest, in the comparison, that he should 
claim to be an authority on organo-therapy, which bears 
much the same relation to therapeutics as business manage¬ 
ment does to economics. I suggest that, having acquired a 
smattering of medicine in general, he should think himself 
qualified to pronounce an unfavourable verdict on your 
present and possible future value to the community. Isn’t 
the parallel near enough?” 

“It may be, in that respect. But, Rina—the knowledge 
one needs to acquire in order to form reasonably intelligent 
opinions on economic problems bears no comparison to 
what is necessary in regard to therapeutics. Business ques¬ 
tions are not really so very difficult. They are largely a 
matter of common sense. Surgery and medicine are not.” 

“Are not business questions difficult? Do you know 
anything about the cause of the fluctuations in the foreign 
exchanges?” 

“Almost nothing.” 

“Come and talk to Uncle Lyon one day this week, in the 
stuffy, dark little cubby-hole at the bank, where he interviews 
casual visitors, and he will tell you of a complex of inter- 


NOT PROVEN 


269 


acting world forces that will make some of your scientific 
problems look like a child’s puzzle in comparison.” 

“Forcible.” 

“Justifiable. Now, Uncle Lyon is supposed to be the 
greatest authority in the world on the subject. He advises 
the British Government. But sometimes he himself says 
John Holden probably knows more than he does.” 
“Well?” 

“Believe me, business problems are not all so simple. 
And what is common sense—your prescription for solving 
them? Only a cliche for knowledge, experience, and judg¬ 
ment.” 

“I think you have me there, Rina. Admitted. Pass on.” 

“I have not quite finished with the point. How are you 
and all your intellectual and intelligent professional 
brethren going to deal with the rearrangement of these 
delicate matters? Don’t forget that to rearrange them will 
be even more difficult than to run them as they are run 
now.” 

“I didn’t say that we were going to do it by ourselves. 
We shall have some business men with us, of course.” 

“But not the pick of them. The fittest get to the top, 
you know. You remarked that yourself. Are you going 
to rearrange your beautiful new world with second-rate 
ability?” 

“Not if we can get the first-rate.” 

“You don’t know that you can’t.” 

“We shall never get John Holden. He is too old to be 
converted.” 

“You won’t convert him by letting him die.” 

“Smart, Rina, but not really to the point. We must do 
the best we can.” 


270 


“QUACK ! ” 


“You might do the best. How do you know John won’t 
wade in and help, if he is alive, once you can face him with 
a constitutional legal change? 

“How can you be sure beforehand that he wouldn’t do 
then what he does now in regard to questions of taxation— 
oppose and oppose and vow he will transplant Sheffield 
to Pittsburg and Newcastle to Essen, and then when the 
new taxes are imposed simmer down and work away in 
the same old fashion? He has always acted in that way 
so far.” 

“Admitted. A very good point, Rina.” 

“Thank you, sir. That brings me to my last and biggest 
point.” 

She leaned forward—she had resumed her seat—in her 
favourite consultation attitude, hands clasped round knees, 
looking into the fireplace. 

“Great movements—popular movements, world move¬ 
ments like the one you have been prophesying about— 
because industrial discontent is not confined to this coun- 


“No, it is world-wide—or soon will be.” 

“—arise, develop, and melt away as the change produced 
embodies itself in the social structure, from successive 
causes which we can only partially identify even after the 
event. Beforehand, we cannot tell what will, and what will 
not, bring about the next stage.” 

“But on that argument you could negative all action.” 
“Not at all. The rise and development of social unrest 
depends on action, and the form the result takes depends 
upon innumerable interactions. I only mean that the 
outcome is unforeseeable.” 

“I don’t grasp your theory.” 



NOT PROVEN 


271 


“Do you remember Shakespeare’s lines in The Winter s 
Tale — 

‘Nature is made better by no mean 
But nature makes that mean’ 

—‘mean’ being used for ‘means’?” 

“I think I do.” 

“They exactly express my argument. You, and others 
who think on similar lines, are seeking to modify nature’s 
productions; but you are yourselves natural products, and 
in endeavouring to do so, servants of nature. Life is 
stronger than those who live it.” 

“Rina, that’s Roger’s!” 

Quoting Quarrant had had to be barred by agreement. 

“It is,” admitted Katrine without shame. “I sum up. 
You can only steer your whirlwind by reason and argument, 
and killing those who disagree with you isn’t an argument— 
or even letting them die when you could prevent it. It is 
the negation of argument. That is the root of your objection 
to war as a means of settling disputes between nations.” 

“I admit that.” 

“Then why begin your new world by making war— 
especially when you cannot be sure that you really have to 
be in such a hurry that killing may be more or less excus¬ 
able? In five or ten years’ time you may look at the then- 
existing conditions and say: ‘Such-and-such is the problem 
today’—something quite different. If your change comes, 
you will need all the outstanding ability there is. Try and 
get John by appealing to his patriotism. Make him Chan¬ 
cellor of the Exchequer—golly, what a rich country we 
should soon be! He would probably start by paying off 
the National Debt.”—Katrine knew that she had won.— 
“Lastly, don’t set yourself up as if you were God-” 



272 


“ QUACK ! ” 


“But, Rina, isn’t that what we are doing every time, if 
your argument is sound? We sit in judgment on our 
fellow-creatures-” 

“It is too late to begin a new argument now. I withdraw 
the last sentence. You defined what we were here to do, 
earlier on: you said that we applied a criterion in certain 
cases. I accept that definition. But we have always 
decided favourably unless there was a definite probability, 
based on the past, that the person would do more harm than 
good in the future. You made out a case against John. I 
say that you have not proved your case, and I claim an 
extension of life for him, if by any means you can compass 
it.” 

At breakfast next morning, Jacky piped up. 

“Are you goin’ to make Uncle John well, daddy?” 

“I think so, little son.” 

Katrine’s heart leapt. She had left Harding weighing the 
medical problem overnight. ‘I think so’ meant that he was 
hopeful of being able to solve it. 

“I ’spect Auntie Janet ’ll be gwad,” pursued Jacky. 

“I am sure she will.” Katrine’s utterance was not quite 
so level as usual. 

“I’m gwad,” affirmed Jacky. 

A pause. 

“Are you gwad too, daddy?” 

Husband and wife looked at each other across the table. 

“I think I am,” said Henry Harding Fullar, neo¬ 
selectionist. 


CHAPTER XI 


A Blinded Man 

The ten years which had been fixed as the period of the 
great experiment were nearly over. 

Dorothy paused at the door, as she was leaving the 
consulting-room with the signed letters. 

“Could I speak to you for a moment, Mr. Fullar?” 

Harding was looking over and completing the day’s 
notes: he wondered why Dorothy should think necessary 
to ask in that formal way if she could speak to him. 

“Yes?” 

“I only wanted to give you notice.” 

If the floor had fallen out and he had suddenly found 
himself sitting in the cellar, Harding would have been less 
surprised. He was so much astonished that he did not even 
look up. He merely said, as he went on writing: 

“All right.” 

Dorothy disappeared. He laid down his pen and won¬ 
dered ruefully. Give notice? Why? 

“Rina-” 

“Yes, dear?” 

“Dorothy gave notice today.” 

“Yes, dear.” 

“You knew she intended to?” 

“Yes, dear.” 


273 



274 


“ QUACK ! ” 


“Then perhaps you can tell me why. I was so flabber¬ 
gasted I didn’t even ask. Has there been a row downstairs 
or something?” 

“Oh, no. It is nothing of that sort.” 

“Isn’t she content with her salary?” 

“Quite content. I don’t think I ought to tell you her 
reason, Harry. If she wishes you to know, she should tell 
you herself.” 

“I may ask her, then?” Harding was a trifle nettled. 

“Yes, I think you might.” 

On the following evening, when Dorothy brought in the 
letters to be signed, Harding remarked: “I said nothing to 
you last night, Dorothy, when you gave notice, because it 
was so unexpected. I asked my wife if she knew why you 
wished to leave, and she said she did.” 

“Yes, sir, Mrs. Fullar knows.” 

“Why is it, Dorothy? I understand it isn’t because you 
aren’t comfortable, or because your salary-” 

“Oh, no, Mr. Fullar, it is nothing like that. I have been 
very happy here, and you have always paid me too much 
—I told you that when you engaged me.” Dorothy’s voice 
began to tremble. “It’s only that—that my husband has 
come back.” 

Harding stared. “Your husband?” 

Dorothy’s eyes grew large and bright—she seemed on the 
verge of saying something—checked herself—gave a sob— 
and ran from the room. 

The dickens! what could be the matter with her? Never 
was man more perplexed. 

“Rina-” 

“Yes, dear?” 

“I spoke to Dorothy today, and she said the reason she 




A BLINDED MAN 


275 


wanted to leave was that her husband had come back. I 
didn’t know she had one. Then she bolted.” 

“Harry! Surely you did not let her know what you 
thought?” 

“I didn’t say it, of course; but I suppose she guessed.” 

“Oh, the poor child! She would be insulted.” 

“She ought to know, after all these years, that I am incap¬ 
able of insulting her. It is simply a fact that I never knew 
whether she had been married to Lily’s father or not. I told 
you so, the first time I mentioned her to you.” 

“I know you did. But-” 

“I thought she hadn’t, because she didn’t say she had. I 
don’t see why she should take on so at a very natural 
mistake.” 

“It isn’t that. Don’t you know that she would never have 
come to live in the house if she had not had a husband 
living?” 

“Why shouldn’t she? He was in gaol—couldn’t support 
her—and Mrs. Snaith was here—her aunt-” 

“All that has nothing to do with it.” Katrine’s tone 
betrayed impatience. 

“What has nothing to do with what? I wish you would 
enlighten me.” 

But Katrine wouldn’t. She merely said: “If it were not 
my own husband, I should not believe that a man could be 
so dense.” 

“Well—I give it up. But I suppose she feels bound to 
leave us—it isn’t a question of making a new arrangement?” 

“Oh, no—she must go.” 

“He wants her to make a home for him?” 

“Yes.” 

“Has he any money?” 




276 


“ QUACK ! ” 


“No.” 

“He won’t find it easy to get work.” 

“He is not in a fit state to work. Dorothy is going to 
keep him as well as Lily, until Lily finishes her schooling 
next year.” 

“How?” 

“By typing. She has taken an office near the Temple.” 

“But can she get work as easily as that? I should have 
thought north of Oxford Street would have been better—I 
could have got her a start with some of the men that way.” 

“She will have plenty to do to begin with, at any rate. 
After that, it depends on herself—on how she does it.” 

“Has she a connection, then?” 

“No. But-” Katrine hesitated—“I went to Uncle 

Bertram and made the beginning of one for her.” 

Harding wrinkled his brows. So Dorothy had taken an 
office, and Katrine had beaten up support, before a word 
had been said to him about Dorothy leaving. What queer 
creatures women are! 

“I see you have been in this, Rina. Well—what are we 
going to do for her? She has only had a hundred a year to 
buy clothes for herself and Lily, and pay Lily’s school-fees, 
and all incidentals. I think we might-” 

Katrine interrupted. “Harry, whatever you do, don’t 
offer her money.” 

“But-” 

Katrine spoke more firmly. “Don’t offer her money.” 

“Then what can we do?” 

Katrine went on with her work for several minutes before 
she said: “I don’t know. I have given her a few things 
towards the furnishing—a couple of old carpets, some odds 
and ends of furniture, linen and—oh, there was that filing- 





A BLINDED MAN 


277 


cabinet you threw out of the consulting-room. You don’t 
mind? It will be useful for her office—she was delighted to 
have it.” 

“Mind!” exclaimed Harding in disgust. “I’m not trying 
to be a Jew, Rina. I want to do something for the girl. 
The least would be to fit up the office properly, or furnish 
the home—where is she going to live?” 

“She has taken a small flat in Battersea. You must not 
dream of offering to fit up the office, or furnish the flat. She 
might accept a typewriter; she has a fair sum of money 
saved, but she wants several of them, and they are ex¬ 
pensive.” Katrine paused. “Try to think of something 
else, Harry. Don’t let it be a material gift. It is not any¬ 
thing of that sort she would like from you.” 

“What would she like, then? Can’t you make a sugges¬ 
tion?”—Nothing perplexes a man more than to be expected 
to choose a suitable gift for a woman in whom he is not 
personally interested, although he may esteem her highly. 

“No. That is just the point. It should be something 
personal—something from yourself. I must not have any¬ 
thing to do with it.” 

“Oh.” Bewilderment! 

He thought hard. After a while he had a brilliant idea. 
He really was not so stupid as some men are. 

“Didn’t you say that her husband was unfit to work?” 

“I did.”* 

“What’s wrong with him?” 

“Prison life has undermined his health. He was fre¬ 
quently sent to the infirmary, but as soon as he was a little 
better they discharged him from it and he had to return to 
the ordinary conditions. Then he gradually became ill 
again.” 


278 


“ QUACK ! ” 


“Infernal,” grunted Harding. “Our prison system needs 
overhauling.—Well, do you think she would like me to see 
him?” 

Katrine put down her work again and looked at him with 
a bright face. 

“Oh, Harry, you dear! that would be just the thing! 
Only—for goodness’ sake don’t say you talked it over with 
me. Keep me out of it entirely.” 

Harding said he would. 

This is how he did it. 

“Dorothy—I had a talk with my wife, and I told her I 
thought we ought to do something for you-” 

Dorothy was suddenly pale. 

“But she seemed to think you would not care about a 
present-” 

“No, Mr. Fullar. Mrs. Fullar has been very kind in that 
way.” 

“I wish you would accept something from me, Dorothy. 
Won’t you let me give you a typewriter—and something 
for Lily—as keepsakes?” 

Dorothy was trembling. “I’d rather not, Mr. Fullar, 
please.” 

“Well, have it your own way.—Wait a minute, there is 
something else.”—Dorothy had shown signs of wishing to 
escape.—“Katrine says your husband is not in the best of 
health.” 

“No, Mr. Fullar.” 

“Would you like me to see him? And if I can do 
anything for him, to do it? I don’t know that I can, but 
if I can I should be very glad indeed to do that for 
you.” 

Dorothy stared fixedly—the tears welled up—she stooped 


A BLINDED MAN 


279 


suddenly, seized Harding’s left hand as it hung by his side, 
raised it to her lips—and fled. 

Now what on earth—or in heaven—or—well, what could 
be her reason for behaving like that? 

He came. A blinded man—not a man who had lost his 
eyesight, but a man who had pulled blinds over all the win¬ 
dows through which most of us make some impression on 
our fellows. Francis Pelham—that was the name he gave— 
made no impression at all. His eyes were beady and quite 
expressionless. When he spoke, it was in a toneless voice, 
without a trace of accent to betray whence he came or how 
he had been brought up. He looked neither cheerful nor 
sad. He never made an unnecessary movement: he stood 
perfectly still, after he had entered the consulting-room, 
until Harding asked him to sit down, then sat down as if he 
had been an automaton constructed to do it, and remained 
in exactly the same attitude until the preliminary conversa¬ 
tion was concluded. 

He answered the questions which Harding asked about 
his health without betraying the slightest interest in the 
subject. He did not show any sign of shame or resent¬ 
ment when Harding alluded to the “institutional con¬ 
ditions” which had brought him to his present bodily 
state, nor the least flicker of acknowledgment at tactfully 
worded expressions of sympathy because he was suffer¬ 
ing from what might and ought to have been avoided. 
Was he ashamed of having committed the offence in expia¬ 
tion of which he had passed so many years in seclusion— 
whatever it was? Had he repented, made a resolution to do 
better? Or did he resent his punishment as unjust, intend 
to revenge himself on society for its treatment of him? No 
one could tell. An unreadable man. A spirit dwelt inside 


280 “ QUACK ! ” 

the mask that enveloped him from head to foot; that was 
all one could say. 

Yet, there was something which one sensed without being 
able to say what it was. 

“Rina—about that chap—Dorothy’s husband. I can make 
hardly anything of him. According to his statements, the 
digestive apparatus must be entirely disorganised. He is 
certainly under-nourished and physically weak. The labora¬ 
tory examinations may throw some light on the cause of the 
condition, but at present I am in the dark, especially as I 
don’t know whether to believe what he says or not. In the 
meantime, will you see Dorothy and ask her what he eats 
and how it affects him?” 

“Very well.” 

“There appears to be aesthesioneurosis, but I am unable 
to diagnose the cause. Ask her if she has noticed it, and 
if so, whether she noticed any of the symptoms before he 
was put away.” 

“What are the symptoms?” 

“Insensibility to sudden stimuli, or a delayed response. 
I pretended to want to examine the throat, and poked the 
spatula nearly into his eye as if accidentally. He neither 
moved nor blinked. I opened the door and called Eliza¬ 
beth, who of course did not come, and then shut the door 
with a bang. He did not start. Then I exploded the trick 
lamp: same negative result. It may be constitutional—his 
nervous system may be hypokinetic: that is what I want to 
know. And—er—it may be an R.T. case. If you can find 
out anything about his record-” 

“I cannot ask her questions of that kind, Harry.” 

“Indirectly. You can lead up to it when you are talking 
about the reflexes. What sort of life did he lead before he 



A BLINDED MAN 


281 


was imprisoned—was he temperate, and so on. I don’t 
suppose she will tell you why he was imprisoned, but if she 
does, all the better.” 

“I have received those reports. They carry me no further. 
Did you get anything out of Dorothy?” 

“A little. The only thing he could take without ill effect 
when he came home was vegetable broth—the water in 
which greens had been boiled without salt. Salt caused 
vomiting. Since, she has discovered that he can digest 
orange-juice. He takes a little of that. Any other form of 
food, however light, causes nausea and pain in the abdomi¬ 
nal region.” 

“That confirms his statements to me. I thought he might 
have been malingering.” 

“So did I.” 

“Have you seen him, then?” 

“Yes—at the flat. I went round in the car to take some 
of the things I had promised Dorothy which Mrs. Snaith 
had been making over—sheets and pillow-cases and such. 
He was there, and I spoke to him.” 

“What about the aesthesioneurosis?” 

“I think it must be constitutional. Dorothy says that he 
never seemed to have any nerves: he always ‘took things as 
they came.’ She also says that he had the habit he still has, 
of not answering questions immediately. Did you notice 
that?” 

“Yes, but I was not sure whether he might not have 

acquired it in prison. Then-” Harding paused. 

Katrine, glancing at him, saw that he was frowning. 

“He is the most puzzling person I ever came across. One 
cannot be certain of anything about him—not even medi¬ 
cally. However—he is unfit to work at present. I find no 



282 


“QUACK ! ” 


indication that there is anything wrong organically—that 
is, no sign that any organ is specifically affected. The 
prognosis is equally vague. He might live for years in 
the condition that he is now in—according to his own 
account it has been approximately the same for the last 
three or four years. On the other hand, he might go out 
at any time—from flu, for instance—pneumonia—bron¬ 
chitis—almost anything.” 

“That might be the best that could happen.” 

“Very likely. But it may not happen. If he takes care 
of himself, why should it?” 

“Is there any chance that he might regain his strength?” 
“Without the R.T.?” 

“Yes.” 

Harding reflected. “It is very difficult to say. I never 
had a case in which it was so hard to be definite. He might 
conceivably be restored to health by the simplest possible 
means—a carefully-devised diet, gentle exercise, tonics, 
etc. But the quickest way would probably be to give him 
the R.T. Are we justified in doing so?” 

“That is for you to decide, dear—unless you wish to 
consult.” 

“The ten years have not expired yet. We will talk it 
over informally—you need not put away your work. Did 
you learn anything about the record?” 

“Dorothy says that he was a gentleman—by which she 
means that he came of people with money. He told her 
that they had cast him off, also that he was born in 
Germany, and had part of his education there. She thinks, 
from something said by a former friend of his whom they 
met one day when they were out together, that he was in the 
army at one time—” 


A BLINDED MAN 


283 


“As a commissioned officer?” 

“Presumably—and that he left it in disgrace. Pelham is 
not his real name.” 

“I never supposed it was. But he might have been an 
officer in the army.” 

“He might have been anything.” 

“What other impression did he make on you?” 

“None. Except that-” Katrine paused. 

“Well?” 

“There was something—a suggestion-” 

“Yes, I felt that. But what was it?” 

“I can’t find a name for it.” 

“Neither can I.” 

They both cogitated. 

“Is he waiting—expecting something?” 

“On the look-out?” 

“That’s it. He is watching. A man on the watch— 
inside.” 

“An incomprehensible person,” said Harding after another 
pause—“an enigma. Did Dorothy tell you what he was 
imprisoned for?” 

“Yes. He was a White Slaver.” 

“Good heavens! She married a low-down blackguard of 
that description?” 

“She didn’t know it until afterwards. He tried to induce 
her to assist him in the business: that was why she left him, 
as she says; but I fancy it was really because Lily was 
coming. After that, she heard nothing of him for two 
years. Then he communicated with her; he had been caught 
and was in prison for twelve months. He came out, and 
was caught again. Six years ago he was caught for the 
third time, and got seven years.” 



284 


“ QUACK ! ” 


“Yet she thinks it her duty to return to him—or rather, 
to let him return to her, and live on her.” 

“He is her husband, Harry.” 

“Oh, that be hanged! As if the marriage-tie was intended 
to mean being handcuffed to hell! I’ve no patience with 
such cattywatty talk, Rina.” 

“So I hear.” 

“If I were to try and induce you to do something wicked 
and soul-destroying-” 

“I might leave you, dear love, for the chicks’ sake, but I 
should come back if you whistled for me when my chicks 
were old enough to be safe.” 

“Why?” 

“Because you are my man.” 

Harding thought this over. He got up after doing so, 
went across to Katrine, took her face between his hands, 
looked into her eyes, stooped, and kissed her square on the 
mouth. 

“You are the best ever.” 

“I’m not.” She rubbed her face against his arm. “I’m 
just plain woman.” 

“Well, it beats me,” said Henry Harding Fullar, F.R.S. 
(He had lately been elected.) It beats others—some of 
whom, perhaps, may have given the problem more con¬ 
sideration than Mr. Fullar had. 

He went back to his chair.—“What ought we to do?” 

“State the probabilities, if we give him the R.T.” 

Again Harding frowned reflectively before he spoke. “We 
must assume that he would get well—be restored to his 
normal, whatever that may be. I see no reason why he 
should not—that is all I can say.” 

“Then he would be able to work.” 



A BLINDED MAN 


285 


“If he wanted to.” 

“You think he doesn’t want to? Did you say anything 
to him about it?” 

“Yes. He replied that he had not considered the ques¬ 
tion.” 

“If he were fit, and didn’t want to work, he might go 
back to his old ways.” 

“Yes—although one would think he had had a lesson.” 

“Possibly—and possibly not. We mustn’t forget Lily.” 
“No.” 

“He would hardly do that, would he?” said Katrine. 
“His own daughter-” 

“One cannot say what such a man would do. But I 
fancy Miss Lily can look out for herself.” 

Lily, now fifteen, was a bouncing rosy-cheeked girl, 
inclined to be impudent, and very much disposed to choose 
her own way. She had, however, improved in many ways, 
and was far from being the cantankerous bundle of per¬ 
versity she had been as a child. 

“Yes. I think she is capable of that—also of better 
things. Lily would work well under discipline.” 

Another pause. Harding suggested in a discomfortable 
tone: 

“There is another side to this, isn’t there, as concerning 
Dorothy? It is not the sort of thing one wishes to touch 
upon if one can help it-” 

“Speak out.” 

“Well—I suppose, if Dorothy left him for Lily’s sake, 
and has gone back to him because, as you put it, he is her 
man, she—er—must have some affection for him?” 

“Not an atom,” said Katrine with absolute assurance. 

“Then why on earth-” 





286 


44 QUACK ! ” 


“Leave that, Harry. You will never understand.” 

Mere man accepted the snub. “Then, that removes the 
last vestige of a reason for giving the fellow the R. T. He 
must take his chance on the best that I can do for him 
otherwise.” 

“Why?” 

“Well, on his record-” 

“Oh, quite. But the idea was that whatever you did would 
be done for her sake.” 

“If she doesn’t care about him, and has merely gone back 
to him from a sense of duty-” 

“She would wish him to be well.” 

“Even supposing that it meant the resumption of marital 
relations?” 

“She would not consider that beforehand. Every woman 
wants her man to be well, no matter what her feelings 
towards him may be otherwise.” 

“Then ought we to make an exception?” 

“You, dear—not 4 we.’ If we were consulting formally, 
I should be bound to say that I saw no reason for giving him 
the reserved treatment. So, I imagine, would you. But 
that we knew, virtually, before we began to discuss. I did, 
at any rate, and I don’t think you expected that I should 
provide satisfactory excuses for him, whatever Dorothy 
might have said.” 

“That is so.” Another pause. “We never have made 
an exception.” 

“There was Lily.” 

Something occurred to Harding. He dismissed it for the 
moment. 

“Ye-e-s. I gave her the benefit of a doubt. But in this 
case, no doubt exists.” 




A BLINDED MAN 


287 


“If you waited a month or two, and then saw him, you 
would feel bound to try the treatment, would you not?” 

“You mean that it will then no longer be reserved? That 
is so. But the experiment is not over yet.” 

“It seems rather pedantic to hold yourself so rigidly 
bound by your own conditions.” 

“The result would have no value if I did not. An experi¬ 
mentalist must keep to the conditions he lays down, at peril 
of stultifying his work. I admit that I am greatly tempted 
to make an exception in this instance. If I understood the 
position as you seem to do, I think I might. But I don’t feel 
that I understand anything about Dorothy since this busi¬ 
ness of her leaving began. So much seems to have been 
going on, between you and her, that I knew nothing of.” 

“Nothing ever went on between us,” stated Katrine. “I 
have always been careful to avoid having any kind of 
relations with her except the necessary formal ones.” 

“I don’t think that is true.” 

“What makes you think I am not speaking the truth?” 

“I didn’t mean that, Rina. Only—on the day we became 
engaged-” 

“When was that?” inquired Katrine innocently. 

“Don’t you recollect? You came into the consulting- 
room one evening in May—it was a very cold day, more 
like March-” 

“I remember everything that happened on that day.” 

“You said you didn’t remember promising to marry me.” 

“I never did promise to marry you. I was not asked.” 

“Rina!” 

“Harry.” 

“You came in and said-” 

“I asked you if you thought my asthenia was cured, where- 





288 


“ QUACK ! ” 


upon you made a leap from the hearthrug to where I was 
standing by the door, kissed me all over my face without 
inquiring whether I liked it or not-” 

Harding laughed. “Didn’t you like it?” 

“Not much—and then we sat down and you proceeded 
to sketch my duties as your wife. But whether I was will¬ 
ing to become your wife, you did not think it worth while to 
ascertain.” 

Harding laughed again. “Well—do you remember that 
as soon as we had discussed what was necessary, you went 
off to see Dorothy?” 

“Yes.” 

“Why?” 

Katrine put down her work and gazed at him. “Don’t 
you know—even now?” 

“No.” 

She took up her work again. “Then all I can say is, those 
bacteria you investigated and discovered all about must be 
of the sex male, because if any of them were females, you 
would never have found out anything about them—except 
the bare fact of their existence. I am not sure even of that, 
unless they had obtruded themselves upon your notice—as 
I did.” 

“You haven’t answered my question.” 

“I don’t intend to—any more than I did then.” 

“It puzzled me, and I am puzzled by your attitude to 
Dorothy now, because the first time I ever mentioned her to 
you, you were a bit-” 

“Catty.” 

“I’m not throwing it up at you. But I shouldn’t have 
been surprised, when we became engaged, if you had wanted 
me to get rid of her. Therefore, I couldn’t imagine why you 




A BLINDED MAN 


289 


thought it necessary to inform her yourself about the 
engagement—that was what you went to tell her, wasn’t it?” 

“Of course.” 

“Or why, now, you and she have both behaved in an 
extraordinary manner. There is something incompre¬ 
hensible about the whole business.” 

“It is not fair to press me, Harry.” 

There was a long pause. Then Harding said shame¬ 
facedly: “You surely don’t mean that Dorothy was in love 
with me?” 

Katrine threw her work on to the floor, ran across, flopped 
on to his knees, put her arms round his neck and kissed him. 

“Oh, my dear, dear man! You are the most beautiful 
thing-” 

In which she was wrong. He was only plain man. 

“I can’t believe it,” said Harding, when she had gone 
back to her chair. “How did you know?” 

“Know! When you told me the story of how you came 
to have her in your house, the fact that she was in love with 
you stuck out all over it. I was then in the stage of realising 
that if you didn’t marry me I should want to commit suicide. 
Naturally, I was jealous.” 

“But there was nothing in what I told you to show that 
she—er-” 

“My dear man, would Dorothy ever have consented to 
do what you wanted if she had not been in love with you? 
Give up a home of her own-” 

“But she could have had the secretary-job just the same, 
and kept her home. I offered to pay her more if she 
preferred that. It was on Lily’s account-” 

“She would almost have presented you with Lily stuffed 
if you had wished it. If she had been a mere outsider 






290 


u QUACK ! ” 


coming in daily, she could not have done ever so many 
things for you which she could and did do because she 
was living in the house. Where do you suppose your socks 
have come from all these years? Have you ever bought 
any?” 

“No. You have given me the silk ones for evening wear. 
I never thought about the others. If you had asked me a 
few minutes ago, I should have said I supposed Mrs. Snaith 
knitted them.” 

“Not likely. Mrs. Snaith keeps her place. Dorothy 
knitted them gratuitously—and she knitted something into 
every stitch of the socks Mr. Fullar found in his drawer 
and put on without ever dreaming of asking how they came 
there. As she knew well he wouldn’t—and did not wish 
that he would.” 

In the silence that followed Harding leaned forward, put 
his face in his hands and rested his elbows on his knees. 
Katrine watched him for some time without speaking. Then 
she said mirthfully: 

“Come, now, Mr. Harding Fullar! Weigh that—analyse 
it—find a chemical reagent for it.” 

“Don’t.” 

She came across to him again. 

“I understand how you feel about it, dear. It is just the 
same when it is the other way about—when a woman 
knows that a man wants her, and does not care for 
him.” 

Which showed that she did not understand at all. 
Harding could not explain. He looked up and said: 

“I suppose that was why you told me not to offer her 
money?” 

“Of course.” 


A BLINDED MAN 


291 


“Then I must do this”—he spoke with energy—“pro¬ 
vided you agree.” 

“Certainly I agree.” 

“I wonder if you would mind bringing me Case-Book X?” 
—He detached the key of the safe from his safety-chain and 
handed it to her. While she was out of the room he sat still, 
in reverie. When she returned with the black-bound, locked 
volume, he found the key for that, opened it, and carried it 
to her writing-table. 

Pelham , Francis . . . 

The entry completed, he turned back to the beginning. 

Pelham, Lily . . . 

“Rina-” 

“Yes, dear?” 

“Isn’t it odd? In all probability, that is the last entry 
in Case-Book X. The experiment began with Lily, and 
ends with Lily’s father.” 

“Yes, dear.” 

“Queer coincidence, isn’t it?” 

“Yes, dear.” 



CHAPTER XII 


The Hardest Nut of All 

Sir Harding Fullar sat in his chair in the drawing-room 
of his house in Cadogan Gardens as he had done on many 
evenings in the previous twenty years. He was not, however, 
reading, as had formerly been his habit after dinner: things 
had happened during the last ten years which had disposed 
him to thought, rather than to reading, in odd moments of 
leisure. He had changed a good deal in appearance; his 
hair was white now: the features had settled into sterner 
lines, the complexion turned reddish. Lady Fullar, who 
was on the other side of the hearth, had outwardly changed 
less. Her figure had acquired a comely matronliness, her 
cheeks were just a little dried-apple-y; but she was much 
the same to a casual eye. In other ways she had changed 
more than her husband. She no longer lucindied—Julia 
Mary Fullar, aged eleven, was one reason—but on the other 
hand, she had adopted slang phrases from her offspring, as 
mothers do. 

They had reached a time of life when the future, regarded 
from a personal standpoint, takes on an indirect aspect; 
parents then look forward through their children, especially 
their sons—if they be lucky enough to have any. Harding 
had been thinking of Jack, now fifteen, and Roger: but his 
mind had passed on to another subject when there was a 
knock at the door, and one of Florrie’s many successors 
came in with an envelope on a tray. 

It was a large, important-looking envelope—a fat, oblong 
in shape, and made of the heaviest and cream-laidiest paper. 

292 


THE HARDEST NUT OF ALL 


293 


The address was typed in very black letters, as if by a 
Government-typist for whom no financial consideration 
applied to the mounting of a fresh ribbon. The address, 
moreover, had apparently been dictated by a punctilious 
person. 

“The Right Honourable Sir Henry Harding Fullar, 
K.C.V.O., F.R.S., D.Sc., F.R.C.P., etc.” 

Harding opened the envelope and took out the contents. 
There were two letters—a long one, typewritten, and a 
short one, in hand-of-write. He read both, and laid them 
on his knee. 

“Whom is your letter from, dear?”—A nearly-twenty- 
year wife may ask: younger wives shouldn’t. 

“The Prime Minister’s secretary: there is a note from the 
P.M. himself.” 

“What does the Prime Minister want with you now?” 
Katrine hoped it wasn’t more work. 

“He wants to make me a peer.” 

“Oh.” Katrine’s smile expressed purely impersonal 
pleasure. 

Harding glanced at her. “Well? What do you say?” 

“It won’t make any difference to me, will it? I can’t be 
more than lady-shipped—it is you who will have to put 
up with being my-lorded. I shall still be just Lady Fullar, 
shan’t I—unless you are going to be Lord Windbach or 
something?” 

“I don’t know that I am going to be Lord Anything. 
We must think about it.” 

“What does he say?” 

“The P.M.? Just that he hopes I won’t refuse. Says 
he mentioned it in high quarters, and was authorised to 
inform me that it would afford gratification if I accepted.” 


294 


“ QUACK ! ” 


“And the secretary, Sir What’s-his-name? Do read it.” 

Harding glanced at the typewritten letter. “Oh—‘a 
tardy recognition of distinguished services’—that sort of 
thing.” He laid the letter down again. “It struck me,” he 
observed meditatively, “when I looked at the envelope, that 
possibly my services had been over-recognised already.” 

“Nonsense, dear. Do read the letter.” 

“It’s rather fulsome. Read it for yourself.” Harding 
passed it over. 

Katrine did not think it fulsome. Her eyes were bright 
and her face was flushed as he laid it down. “You must 
decide yourself, dear.” 

“Well, there’s Jack to be considered. I don’t know that 
it is altogether a good thing for a lad to grow up as the 
heir to a peerage.” 

“I don’t know that it is. Still—Jack is very level-headed. 
And I don’t think he will be a doctor, like you, dear. Roger 
may.” 

“You mean, it would handicap Jack if he went in for 
medicine? Yes, I should say it might. I am inclined to 
think he is developing a predilection for engineering.” 

“I have thought that.” 

“I found him the other day, examining one of my electri¬ 
cal gadgets in the laboratory—no, he wasn’t fooling with it. 
He asked me what it was for, and when I had explained its 
purpose, and was going on to explain how it worked, the 
young beggar interrupted and told me that. He knows a 
good deal about electricity—and mechanics—for his age.” 

“Yes, he does. I sometimes wish he were not quite so 
keen on games.” 

“That may be only a phase, Rina. It often is—and 
interest in games is a healthy interest for boys.” 


THE HARDEST NUT OF ALL 


295 


“So many young men nowadays seem to be interested in 
nothing else—and young women, too.” 

“The social atmosphere fosters it. However—we’ll just 
think this belording problem over. There is no hurry.” 

“No. I suppose it would be announced in the New 
Year’s List.” 

“Probably. I will write a note and say I want a day or 
two to consider.”—He got up and wrote the note at Katrine’s 
writing-table. He propped it, enveloped and addressed, 
against an ornament on the mantelpiece, and then stood, 
thoughtful, on the hearthrug. 

“We’ll dismiss it for the moment, Rina. I want to talk 
to you of something else. The second ten years are up— 
the ten years we agreed to wait, after the experimental test 
was completed, before trying to estimate the results.” 

“Oh.” 

“Get Case-Book X, will you dear?” He handed her 
the key. 

Case-Book X had been taken out of the safe many times, 
since the last entry had been made, for the purpose of 
adding notes to the entries. 

Katrine brought it. Harding sat down, unlocked it, and 
opened it on his knee. 

“I have already provisionally valuated a number of 
cases—those in which the result seemed clearly to justify 
the action taken or the contrary—by putting in the column 
provided for the purpose a plus or minus sign. Also, in a 
few instances, I have put a cipher; those are the cases in 
which we endeavoured to accord a further lease of life and 
failed, or succeeded only temporarily. That man Geikle, 

for example-” 

“Yes.” 



296 


“QUACK ! ” 


“I want you to check my provisional valuations, and help 
me to valuate the other results.” 

Instinctively, Katrine rose, pushed away the chair she 
usually used nowadays, and dragged her old consultation 
chair from its place in a corner. 

“Pelham, Lily,” read Harding, and paused. 

“One up,” said Katrine in a low but decided tone. 

“I don’t think so, dear.”—She looked at him in surprise. 
—He answered the look. 

“I don’t question that, in the end, the action was justi¬ 
fied: but it was the reverse of what it should have been 
in relation to the conditions of the experiment. I made 
a note to that effect. I shrank from the responsibility 
of deciding adversely alone, and I had not then secured 
the invaluable colleague who assisted me so ably in 
regard to all the subsequent cases.”—He did not smile 
as he said this, nor did Katrine: they were not so light¬ 
hearted as of yore.—“I think—I am almost sure—that if 
we had discussed the case together we should have de¬ 
cided on scientific grounds to let Lily go. You said so, 
afterwards.” 

“Yes, I believe I did.” 

“Therefore, really, the case ought to count one down for 
the selective principle, not one up.” 

There was a silence. They both thought of the day in 
July, 1914—less than a year after Dorothy quitted Cadogan 
Gardens—when she had come back in white-faced agony to 
ask for help in tracing Lily—which meant Lily and Lily’s 
father. Both had disappeared. Dorothy’s little store of 
money had disappeared too—it had been drawn from the 
bank, but not by her. Francis Pelham’s accomplishments, 
it now appeared, included the ability to forge passably. 


THE HARDEST NUT OF ALL 


297 


But that was a minor matter. Dorothy was agonised for 
Lily . . . Lily . . . 

The police had traced Lily, and her father, in something 
under forty-eight hours—a smart piece of work, the super¬ 
intendent told Harding with a gratified smile. But it was 
not smart enough to be of use. Lily and Lily’s father had 
left England from Harwich by the Flushing boat. Then 
came to light the first of a series of surprises. Dorothy 
weepingly told them that it was in Germany that her hus¬ 
band had formerly carried on the other end of his abom¬ 
inable traffic: she inferred that he had gone back there to 
resume it, with Lily as assistant—or stock-in-trade. The 
endeavours which would have otherwise been made to 
rescue Lily were frustrated by the outbreak of war. Then, 
in the second week of August, Lily came home—not quite 
so cheeky and perky as she had left it, but still unconcerned 
for herself and others. She refused to say where she had 
been or what had happened to her, except that the worst 
had not happened: as to her father, he was all right; he knew 
the ropes over there, and was quite at home. Dorothy had 
wished to keep Lily with her; but Lily “couldn’t stick ma’s 
poky ways,” as she expressed it, and had begged Harding 
to put her in the way of being trained as a nurse. It seemed 
likely that unless some occupation under discipline were 
found for her, she might break away again: so Harding had 
arranged that she should have her desire. After the requi¬ 
site hospital experience in England, Lily sailed for Egypt as 
a V.A.D. Nothing was heard of her until Dorothy learned 
that she was missing from among the survivors of a hospital 
ship torpedoed while taking wounded men from the Dar¬ 
danelles to Tenedos. Subsequently, there was a letter from 
a nurse who had been on duty with her at the moment of 


298 


“ QUACK ! ” 


the disaster. Lily, it appeared, could undoubtedly have 
saved herself if she would. “We were told by an orderly 
to go up at once,” said the writer, “and I know she under¬ 
stood why. Of course we were not to let the patients know, 
because it was impossible to save them. The ship only 
floated ten minutes. But Pelham wouldn’t leave her 
wounded.” So Lily had been regarded as a heroine after 
the approved pattern. Then, nearly a year later, came a 
naval lieutenant, and it appeared that Lily had been 
canonised on wrong grounds. As the boats were putting 
off from the foundering ship, someone had screamed up 
to him that there was a nurse in the after ward on C deck 
who had not come up. He went down, and poked his head 
in at the door. Lily was attending to a patient—and, inci¬ 
dentally, telling him a funny story. Summoned, she had 
come outside, and said: “I know. But I’m not coming.” 
He remonstrated with her: she could do the wounded no 
good by sacrificing her own life, etc. “Oh, it’s not that,” 
said Lily. “But look here. The Germans are doing this 
sort of thing to frighten us, aren’t they? Well, it won’t 
make any difference whether I live or not: I shan’t win the 
bloomin’ war. So I’m going to show the Kayzer that he 
can’t frighten even me. You let him know if you get the 
chance. It’s n.b.g.—see? Now hop it.” 

Lily had merely been Lily to the last. 

“One cannot valuate that,” said Harding, and Katrine 
knew that he referred to the bit in Lily of the rock on 
which broke the wave so carefully gathered to sweep every¬ 
thing before it. 

“No. But I agree that we ought to count one down.” 

“The next is Harry Scott. I met him again the other day 
—he looked very fit, and is still doing well.” 


THE HARDEST NUT OF ALL 


299 


“All square for the selective principle, then.” 

The next—I think you will agree—makes it one up. 
Harriet Tremaine.” 

“I pass Harriet. She’s fine.” 

“Yes.—Then we come to Snappy.” 

“Oh.” Katrine’s tone was very short indeed. Snappy 
had earned letters to his name during the war—but they 
were C.O. “All square again?” 

“I don’t see what use he has been. He has never even 
written anything—never done an ounce of good to any¬ 
body, even to himself, as far as I know. All square.” 

“Herman Aprick.” 

“We never succeeded in learning anything about him 
afterwards—anything definite.” 

“No.” 

“Then I suppose we must halve it.” 

“All square again.—Sanborough, Lord Ambrose. The 
decision was adverse.” 

“Yes. I was glad when he recovered. You really saved 
his life just the same, Harry.” 

“I only did my duty.” 

“You took immense pains over it. Sometimes I used to 
wonder-” 

Katrine was going to say that Harding’s extra-conscien¬ 
tiousness over patients to whom the reserved treatment was 
refused had seemed to her significant. She stopped herself. 
—“We mustn’t digress. From the point of view of the 
experiment, I think on the whole that we were right. He 
never has taken office, or done anything commensurate with 
his abilities. I don’t know that he has done as much harm 
as you thought he might. There have been no more raging 
crusades.” 



300 


“ QUACK ! ” 


“Behind the scenes he has been stubbornly intransigent.” 
Harding reflected. “Ought we to take into account the 
result of Mexley’s marriage? We did at the time, as a 
possibility in case Lord Ambrose did not recover, and our 
view was that it would probably be a success.” 

“You mean that it has not been a success?” 

“Do you call it a success?” 

“No. He is not half the man he was, and she is ineffective 
as a marchioness. Isn’t it curious? One would have 
thought that she would have been perfect: whereas she 
seems to have no ideas whatever—to be unaware that there 
is a larger sphere for her than her nursery, and a very 
narrow social one, limited almost to the family.” 

“She has repressed him. He had ideas—only little 
sprouts of ideas, it is true; but they might have grown, if 
she had fostered that side of his character. Instead, she 
has stifled him mentally.” 

“He has shrunk altogether. And the children—theirs— 
are not what one would have hoped. The girls are dull, 
and the boy is appallingly priggish.” 

“Yes. But as to Lord Ambrose, I agree that on the whole 
we were right. One up, then.—Hackton Stansbury.” 

“I recollect him—a swanky person. He came to dinner 
one night, some time after he was cured. Didn’t he wrangle 
the invitation out of you and then talk business?” 

“Yes. We thought it looked fishy. You called on your 
uncle-” 

“I remember now. Uncle Lyon gave me a note to those 
people in the city who know all about everybody. They 
said that they could not advise transactions with Mr. 
Stansbury.” 

“I admired the euphemism. Eventually, he was prose- 



THE HARDEST NUT OF ALL 


301 


cuted for swindling, but got off. I have a note here that on 
the face of it he escaped because the evidence was insuf¬ 
ficient. I think we must say all square.” Katrine assented. 

“Adrienne Schorn.” 

“Nuff said.” 

“I agree. One down, then.” 

A wasted life, and a debauchee’s end. 

“The next was that man at Highgate—Aldebert Winsfield. 
We did not take action, for the sake of the family. I met 
the eldest son, Hugh, in 1912. He told me that he was 
married, that his brothers were both in the business with 
him, and that they were prospering. The mother was still 
living, and the younger boys lived with her. The girl— 
do you remember how shockingly Winsfield had behaved 
to her?—was happily married.” 

“All square.” 

They came to—“Geikle, Archibald.” 

“I marked that provisionally with a cipher,” observed 
Harding. “Can we revise our estimate of the probabilities 
if he had lived?” 

“I don’t see how we can.” 

“The view I took at the time, that the activities of the 
extremists were unlikely to bring about a catastrophe, proved 
correct. That, after allowing for his personal character and 
his services to Trade Unionism, was the governing factor in 
our decision. But it is hard to say that the event would have 
justified it otherwise. During the war, although the 
moderate men in the Labour movement did nobly, Geikle’s 
kind—his old associates and successors of the left wing— 
either sulked or skulked until they thought it was safe to 
preach defeatism; then they preached it, and tried in other 
ways to bring the war to an inconclusive end. If we were 


302 “ QUACK ! ” 

to assume that Geikle would have acted similarly, I should 
say one off.” 

“So should I. But I don’t think we are justified in pre¬ 
dicating what Geikle would have done. There was . . .” 

After a discussion, it was agreed that Harding’s cipher 
should stand, and that the same should apply to other 
similar cases. “We cannot know,” said Katrine, “any more 
than we could when we made the decision.” 

Harding frowned. “Do you mean that it is not possible 
to predict what anyone will do in given circumstances?” 

Katrine thought it prudent to hedge. She had spoken 
incautiously. “I meant that we cannot tell now any better 
than we could then.” 

The score was two up when Harding came to—“Quarrant, 
Roger.” 

“Of course you did right.” 

“In spite of his deserting his wife and child?” 

“He didn’t desert them. He provided for them. He had 
to leave his home because things had reached such a pitch 
of unhappiness that he could no longer write. And he had 
to write. He obeyed the call.” 

“But he need not have gone away with another woman, 
Rina.” 

“Yes, he need. Roger could not live without a woman. 
In spite even of that, I say you did right. He has quad¬ 
rupled his output—a book a year, now, regularly, instead 
of one in four or five years, and being forgotten by his 
public meantime. And the work is better—much better. 
Roger has taken a real hold of the minds and imaginations 
of thousands—helped them by making them see life as it 
is and as it might be. Roger is a great man. What was the 
score—two up? Three up, then.” 


THE HARDEST NUT OF ALL 


303 


“I think we ought to halve it.” 

“No.” Katrine was determined. 

Harding said: “I shall never understand how you, the 
chastest of women, and rather inclined to severity in 
judging moral laxities than otherwise, have come to cham¬ 
pion Roger so whole-heartedly.” 

“I can’t altogether forgive him. But, Harry, his wife!” 

Dead silence. 

“I still go to see her sometimes, you know—for Doris’s 
sake. I went the other day. Before I came away I wanted 
to scream at her. What a fool she is! She seems to have no 
sense of proportion—no savvy. Instead of leaving her, 
Roger ought to have cut her into little pieces and stuffed 
them down the drains. But I suppose he doesn’t know 
how.” 

Harding laughed. Katrine went on: 

“You must admit that he bore with her fussiness like an 
angel. Do you remember the day when they were to dine 
with us, and after three or four contradictory telephone 
messages he arrived alone? I tried to do the civil. I said 
I was sorry she felt that she could not leave Doris. Of 
course I knew there was nothing really the matter with 
Doris, and I wasn’t sorry at all that she had elected to stay 
at home-” 

“He was twice the man without her that he was with her.” 

“A million times. The darling perceived that I was being 
just a wee bit catty, and reproved me with: ‘Ah, well, she is 
not to be blamed for sometimes being over-anxious about 
her maternal duties. When God made Hate and Greed and 
Cruelty and Pride, he was careful to make no more than 
would just fill the moulds. But when he made Love, he 
made too much, and it overflows.’—He was referring to 



304 “ QUACK ! ” 

mother-love, but I have often thought of it since, in relation 
to him and his new wife. Let’s go over next winter and 
make her acquaintance. I shall be hideously jealous, but 
I shall forgive her, because she has made him happy.— 
Continue, my lord. Three up, as I said.” 

“Don’t be-lord me yet.” 

They came to—“Holden, John.” 

Another silence. 

“He did some good work during the war.” 

“Yes, he did,” agreed Harding. “And he never had the 
credit he deserved for it, because he was too far-seeing to 
suit the officials. You remember about the machine-guns, 
when they told him in 1915 no more would be required? 
He knew better. But, later on, when the labour troubles 
became acute, he was in the way. He couldn’t realise that 
peace-time methods were inappropriate to war conditions. 
Those behind the scenes knew that from the national point 
of view it was a good thing he was gone. The proper 
things were said and done, of course. There were letters of 
condolence, and the offer of a peerage in her own right to 
Janet—which she refused—I admire her for that. Also 
articles in the newspapers—‘The Passing of A Great Force’ 
—‘A Silent Figure’—etc., etc. But if he had lived, he would 
have been an obstacle to the solution of the labour problem 
during the war, and now.” 

“His end was so tragically inapposite. That a bomb 
should happen to fall into his offices in Bishopsgate Street, 
and explode in the room in which he was sitting!” 

“Yes. What are we to do about the case? I was right, 
in a way.” 

“I suppose you were. Halve it.” 

“Very well.” 


THE HARDEST NUT OF ALL 


305 


They went on. One up—all square—one down—all 

square—one up—two up- 

It was one up for the selective principle when Harding 
came to the last entry, and read out: “Pelham, Francis.” 
Again there was the tribute of a silence. 

Nothing whatever had been heard of Lily’s father during 
the war or for several months after the armistice. Then, 
one day, Harding, just back from Mesopotamia, had been 
called up by a high official—one of those whose names 
rarely get into print and whose work never does. “Awfully 
sorry to trouble you, Sir Harding, but there is a man in 
hospital I want to save if I can. He rendered valuable 
service during the war, and he won’t get anything else out 
of it. I know you are not taking any work at present— 
that was why the medicos would not ask you—but they say 
you are the only man who can help them.” 

Harding had scarcely been able to believe his eyes when 
he saw the patient. He was so nearly sure there must be a 
mistake, that after giving what help he could, he had gone 
straight to the War Office. “Yes, we knew that, more or 
less,” said the high official when he had heard what Harding 
had to say as to the dying man’s career. “We received 
information from him within a month after the outbreak of 
the war. As we didn’t know who he was, and the bearer 
didn’t impress us favourably, we attached no value to it. 
It seemed likely to be a case of false information com¬ 
municated by the other people to mislead us. We had a 
good deal of that sort of thing. However, other com¬ 
munications came, and it was noticed that in each case 
the information proved correct. We began to wonder who 
this man was. Then he sent us the first intimation of the 
decision as to the submarine campaign. After that, what 



306 


“ QUACK ! ” 


he sent was looked on as important. I don’t say we ever 
trusted him entirely; but as a matter of fact he never once 
put us wrong.” 

“How did he do it?” 

“He had a number of girls who worked in the night 
cafes, and others in the government offices. The marvel 
is he held on after gay life in the Friedrichstrasse was 
stopped. He must have been nearly starving—so your 
confreres say. Do you think so?” 

Harding could not but agree that there was every indi¬ 
cation of under-nourishment for a long period. 

“Well, if he had chosen to walk into the office of my 
opposite number, he could have had his pockets stuffed 
with money to mislead us. They would have used him for 
all he was worth.” 

“And then had him shot.” 

“Not at all. There is no ill-feeling in our business. 
Shoot ’em if you catch ’em—we generally hang them here, 
as a matter of etiquette. But if they walk in and hands-up, 
not likely. You may want them again. Pelham would have 
been quite safe, and he would know that.” 

“How did he manage to get the information over?” 

The official smiled. Then his face grew grave again. 
“However—there’s nothing to be done?” 

“Nothing,” said Harding regretfully. The machine was 
worn out. 

“Four years,” said Katrine musingly. “I think he must 
have been the bravest man who ever lived.” 

“No, dear.” 

“But, Harry! For four years his life hung by a hair, and 
he never flinched. If he had, he would have been found 
out.” 


THE HARDEST NUT OF ALL 


307 


“His nervous system was not normal, and the particular 
form of the abnormality enabled him to do what very few 
men could do. The devotion he displayed in taking upon 
himself a dangerous task, and carrying it through, is his 
true claim to respect. As the man at the War Office put it: 
‘He was a volunteer—an unpaid volunteer.’ That might 
stand for his epitaph.” 

“Two up, anyhow.” 

“I don’t think so. In his case, as in Lily’s the action was 
taken on non-scientific grounds. We were agreed that 
according to the conditions of the experiment, we ought to 
let him go. Therefore, the final score is all square.” 

“I see.” 

Neither of them said anything for some time. Harding 
was considering the results en bloc. 

“There is a triple coincidence,” he observed at last. 
“Not only were the first and last cases daughter and father 
—bringing one back to the starting-point, in a sense—but 
they were the exceptional cases—the only ones in which a 
prolongation was accorded contrary to the conditions: and 
the results were exceptionally good. Estimating them as 
well as I can, in comparison with the results of the cases in 
which we arrived at a favourable decision, I am inclined to 
say that Lily and her father both did better than any of the 
people whose lives we prolonged on scientific grounds.” 

“I agree with you there.” 

“What do you make of the coincidence?” 

Katrine thought she might venture now. Ten years ago 
she dared not. 

“To me, it is significant—the most significant thing 
connected with the results.” 

“In what way?” 


308 “ QUACK ! ” 

“It may not be a coincidence.” 

“What else can it be?” 

“An illustration of a law—the law which Hugh Mac¬ 
Millan called the Law of Circularity.” 

Harding wrinkled his forehead. “I don’t follow that.” 

“Perhaps, dear, we were necessarily going round in a 
circle. And”—she was being very bold—“perhaps the 
reason the experiment proves nothing is that it could not 
prove anything.” 

“I don’t agree as to that. The positive indication is nil, 
but there may be—inferences—of value—to be drawn from 
the—negative.” He put his hand on his forehead, and 
frowned: Katrine did not notice this; she was occupied with 
her thoughts. 

“What inferences, dear?” 

“One—I think—is that—that-” 

It struck her that he was fumbling with his words to an 
unusual extent. The habit had grown upon him of late 
years: she had put it down to strain, and become accustomed 
to it. But now she looked at him. The expression on his 
face alarmed her. 

“Are you not well, dear?” 

He did not reply for a minute or more. He was staring 
at the floor. When he spoke, it was in a queer, thick voice 
—a voice half-muffled. 

“I—I have a curious sensation in my head—a sort of— 
of spreading shadow.” 

Katrine jumped up. She knew that he had not really 
been well for some time, although he would never admit it. 
There had been many little signs—a disposition to sudden 
rage over trifles: a trick of pausing in the middle of a 
remark and forgetting to finish it: fits of absence of mind, 



THE HARDEST NUT OF ALL 


309 


even—as she had been told—in the midst of important 
discussions with his compeers. She thought this was some¬ 
thing of the sort, although she had never heard him speak 
in that voice before. 

“I will get you some brandy.” 

The darkening brain sent out a last flicker. “No, not 
brandy, Rina. Get-” 

The thickened utterance died away. The grey shadow 
had crept across that wonderful super-mechanism in his 
head. 

When he recovered consciousness, two days after, it was 
evident that, although his senses were working, other func¬ 
tions of the brain were in abeyance. Sight, hearing, smell, 
taste, and—as to one side of the body—touch, were restored: 
but he did not appear to know where he was or who he was, 
to recognise anybody, or to understand what was said in his 
hearing. Nor could he control his limbs on the otherwise 
unaffected side; when he tried to put his hand from under 
the bedclothes, for instance, it moved erratically. Several 
days later, it became apparent that he was aware this was 
not as it should be, and uneasy at not being able to under¬ 
stand when the nurses spoke to each other. He tried to 
speak; the sounds which issued from his lips were unintel¬ 
ligible, and he seemed to be aware of that too: his distress 
became great. He comprehended, however, when Dr. 
Adkins smiled and shook his head and put his finger to 
his lips, and made as if to go to sleep; he ceased to try 
to speak, and became quiescent. 

Further progress was made. It became evident that he 
recognised those whom he had seen often since the return 
of consciousness, and Katrine thought that he knew that he 
had seen her before then—that memory was coming back. 



310 


“ QUACK ! ” 


One day he tried to smile at her when she came into the 
room, and to say something: she smiled back and made the 
sign for silence, and he assented with an expression in his 
eyes that brought a lump into her throat. 

After ten days it was clear that the faculties were at work 
in the sense that he was conscious, to some extent, of the 
nature of his disability: he wanted to talk, knew that he 
had to learn to do so, and insisted on being taught. The 
doctors instructed the nurses and the patient learned to say 
“Thanks,” “Please,” “Enough,” etc. He advanced to 
phrases—“Going to sleep” was the first. The Doctor of 
Science, the Fellow of the Royal College of Physicians, the 
holder of over thirty honorary degrees, had to learn as a 
child has to learn. 

But not with a child’s brain. Great as was the damage 
done by the lesion which had taken place, the quality of the 
rest of the mechanism was not impaired. He learned 
rapidly, and within a fortnight his vocabulary was com¬ 
paratively large. Moreover, there was evidence that he 
remembered things which he had known before his illness: 
when the first injection was given, he followed the process 
of filling the hypodermic with obvious satisfaction; clearly 
he remembered that. Next day, to make sure of this, Dr. 
Adkins feigned to forget to sterilize the needle by holding 
it in the flame of the spirit lamp: the patient frowned, tried 
to shake his head, to convey a warning. “No, no,” he 
persisted when Adkins pretended to be about to make the 
injection. The needle duly sterilized, he evinced satis¬ 
faction. 

“He’ll do,” said Dr. Adkins. He explained to Katrine 
that the obstacles which prevented the patient from remem¬ 
bering everything might be cleared away in stages. “If that 


THE HARDEST NUT OF ALL 


311 


happens—and the process may begin at any time—you 
must be careful, Lady Fullar. He may not know that he 
does not remember everything. He may think he does. 
Nothing should be said which will cause him to realise 
that his recovery in that respect is partial, or he may try 
to strain his memory. That will be bad for him. Little by 
little is the right way: it will all come back in time, if we 
let nature do the work in her own fashion. Wonderful 
thing the brain: we think we can do wonders with it: but 
we didn’t make it, you know, and we can’t repair it. We 
have to leave that to nature.” 

Katrine was going through accounts with the housekeeper 
in the consulting-room. The nurse on duty came down. 

“Sir Harding has asked for you, Lady Fullar.” 

It was the first time he had done so. Hitherto he had 
not achieved more than welcoming her with a one-sided 
smile when she went in, saying, “Katrine” and “Dear” and 
“Better today,” and holding her hand with his efficient 
one. 

She went upstairs sedately—no flurry, no hurry; she was 
a doctor’s wife. 

He greeted her in the usual manner. She sat down com¬ 
posedly beside the bed, and linked her fingers in her lap. 

He did not speak for some time. He seemed to be think¬ 
ing. Then : 

“One inference may be that the experiment was not 
adequately scaled to the problem.” 

Katrine’s pulse jumped. She thought: “Is he delirious? 
He can’t be. It isn’t a form of aphasia—meta—what is it?” 

She said quietly: “Yes, dear.” 

“You have forgotten what we were talking about, Rina.” 

“When?”—She could have bitten her tongue out the 


312 “ QUACK ! ” 

next instant for obeying the impulse to say anything so 
insanely dangerous. 

“Ah. I don’t know that. But you asked me a question, 
and I was going to answer it, when something happened.” 

“Yes, dear. I remember perfectly now.” 

“There is another possible inference, suggested by some¬ 
thing you said just before that-” 

“Dearest, I don’t think you ought to talk about it now. 
No strain of any kind, and least of all no mental strain: 
that is the rule for invalids.” 

One side of Harding’s face smiled. Katrine wondered 
how much he knew. It was clear that the great doctor was 
coming back, and down at the bottom of her mind, thrust 
out of sight, was a cold sharp fear. 

Convalescence was a long business. The Christmas holi¬ 
days arrived, the boys came home from school. Father was 
well enough to have them in his room occasionally, and to 
chat. He even shared to a small extent in the Christmas 
celebration. The holidays came to an end, the boys dis¬ 
appeared from the home, and the house was quiet again. 
Julia Mary never made a disturbance, just as her mother 
never did. 

On a February day, while Katrine was having tea with 
him, Harding said: 

“I think I might be told about the case now, Rina.” 

“Yes. Adkins and Sir George have been waiting to have 
a talk with you, when you were inclined.” 

“Let me run over it with you first.—The war strain 
induced hyperadrenalism, which affected the cardio-vascular 
system, producing hypertension, and the nervous system, 
producing a sub-hysteric condition. There has been arterio¬ 
sclerosis ...” 



THE HARDEST NUT OF ALL 


313 


Characteristically, he was first “mapping out the field,” 
in his own phrase—describing the physical condition prior 
to the apoplexy, and accounting for it. 

“The lesion occurred in the left cerebral hemisphere, low 
down, in the neighbourhood of the pons variolii, causing 
crossed hemiplegia. There was extensive intercranial 
haemorrhage ...” 

She marvelled. He knew all about it—almost all. There 
was only one aspect of the case which he overlooked. It 
was a very important one for him and for her: she was 
thankful that he had not perceived it. 

“You leave me nothing to tell you,” she said, smiling. 
“No?” 

“No, dear—hardly anything.” . 

He smiled lopsidedly. “What are they injecting?” 

“Fullamin-plus.” 

“Dose, and combination?” 

She told him. 

“Are they sure that is right?” The question of dosage 
was still a tricky one, especially when the brain had been 
affected. 

“As sure as they can be. They would value another 
opinion.” 

Harding frowned. “And whom do Adkins and Cobham 
need to consult about the application of the Fullamin-plus 
treatment?” 

“Sir Harding Fullar, of course.” 

Harding made a queer noise that was no doubt a laugh. 
“Some compliment.” 

“Well, dear—you know more about it than anyone else. 
But don’t bother if you don’t feel equal to it. They are 
acting cautiously. Nothing will happen to you.” 


314 “ QUACK ! ” 

Harding pooh-poohed this last.—“I think I am equal to 
it.” He reflected, and put questions to her as to the symp¬ 
toms during the period of unconsciousness; she found her¬ 
self out of her depth. 

“I can’t tell you that.” 

“But I must know,” he said sharply. “I must be fully 
informed as to the history of the case, or I cannot give any 
assistance.” 

She did not mind. It was only the great doctor speaking. 
“No doubt Dr. Adkins will be able to tell you when he 
comes in tomorrow, dear.” 

“Yes. But—a nice problem: a very nice problem.” 

She left him reflecting over the nice problem. The next 
day he talked about it serenely to Adkins and Cobham, who 
happened to come together. He advised them to modify 
their scheme of dosage, and explained why. They agreed 
afterwards that he was probably right. 

One afternoon later in the same week it was too wet for 
him to go into the park in his bath chair. He lay on the 
couch in the drawing-room, with a rug over his legs, and 
chatted. The illness had made a difference in his manner: 
it was less preoccupied than it had been for many years 
previously; he was readily interested in trifles, especially 
if connected with the children, and talked freely on indif¬ 
ferent subjects. This brought back to Katrine her court¬ 
ship days: but she was conscious of a new note—a grave 
placidity, and less dogmatism; he was as sure of himself 
as he had ever been, but he did not seem so sure about many 
other things. 

“Let us finish our interrupted discussion. I have been 
thinking about the matter, and I should like to dispose of 
it.” 


THE HARDEST NUT OF ALL 


315 


It had always been one of his habits to turn a problem 
over and over in his mind until he could arrive at some 
kind of conclusion, and then dismiss it; Katrine thought it 
might help him if she assented. 

“You said there was another inference to be drawn from 
the negative result of the experiment.” 

“Negative indication. It is that possibly the subject 
matter is not amenable to any experimental test.” 

Katrine said nothing: she did not know what it would be 
safe to say. 

“You have the two: that the experiment was not scaled to 
the problem, and that the problem is not attackable by that 
method—as you put it, that the reason the experiment 
proved nothing is that it could not prove anything.” 

“I think you are right.” 

Harding glanced keenly at her. “Is that what you have 
always thought?” 

Katrine tried to evade this. “Do you mean, have I always 
thought you were in the right, or-” 

“You can take the question either way.” 

She was caught. “Well, dear, I never did think your 
experiment would really prove anything.” 

“You didn’t say so, when I invited you to share in it, on 
the evening I proposed—or, as you always will have it, the 
evening I did not propose.” 

“I had made up my mind before then.” 

“Before? That was the first you knew of it.” 

“I mean that I had made up my mind to be the best kind 
of wife, if I became your wife—to help you to the utmost of 
my power. I knew that you aimed at something higher than 
mere success in your profession, that you were an idealist, 
and even what kind of ideal you were trying to realise. You 



316 


“ QUACK ! ” 


had given me a glimpse of it. It was a shock when I learned 
the nature of the experiment, but I could not refuse to 
play up.” 

“Did you sympathise with the object of it—with my ideas 
as you had glimpsed them?” 

“Not altogether.” 

“Why not?” 

“Is this wise, dear? Won’t it-” 

“Not in the least. It might worry me if we didn’t have 
it out.” 

Katrine knew that was so. She reflected. 

“Do you remember the first time you opened your mind 
to me—the evening in Bruton Street, when you suggested the 
Infant Welfare Centre at Limesea? People had often talked 
to me about such projects. Many of them were self-seekers 
—traders in philanthropy: others well-meaning but ineffec¬ 
tive—talkers and nothing else: others mere faddists: but 
some were clever and in earnest. I noticed that, although 
their aims were diverse, they all thought themselves com¬ 
petent to judge for others, and that most of their schemes 
involved compulsion in some form, immediate or ultimate. 
I did not think that they were competent to judge for others, 
and consequently justified in coercing those who were un¬ 
willing to fall in with their ideas. At different times grand¬ 
father subscribed to some of these movements, and was put 
on the governing bodies. According to him, the people who 
ran them spent most of their time in quarreling with each 
other, and very little was achieved. I came to the conclusion 
that what vitiated their earnestness and ability was precisely 
those two assumptions. When you talked about eugenics 
and the regeneration of the race, it seemed to me that you 
were making the same assumptions.” 



THE HARDEST NUT OF ALL 


317 


Harding smiled. “How curious! I went away quite 
elated, thinking that I had impressed you.” 

“So you had. I did not class you with the other people. 
Your idealism was of a different quality—clear, forceful, 
and as to the first steps eminently practical. You were an 
idealist of a new sort. I wanted to help you to realise your 
aims, as far as they could be realised in our lifetimes; but 
I was doubtful as to whether they were realisable at all 
in the ultimate sense—whether you were not, to quote Jack, 
‘biting off a darn sight more than you could chew’.” 

“Go on. This is extremely interesting. I am getting all 
sorts of new lights. You seem to have done a lot of 
thinking I never knew about.” 

“You made me very thoughtful that night. It wasn’t 
fair of you, because I was in love, and when a woman is in 
love she does not want to think—it muddles her up. Your 
brain seemed to me to be divided into two halves—I don’t 
mean anatomically; I am referring to your mentality. On 
the professional side, you were a model doctor—widely 
informed, conscientious and extremely cautious. On the 
other side—as a sociologist—you seemed to me not so well 
informed, and reckless rather than prudent. You had been 
ready to condemn my grandfather—you only confessed that 
later, but I had detected it—because you thought that 
financiers of his type were noxious, that their activities 
merely amounted to a drain on the community. But you 
did not even know, until I told you, what the nature of 
those activities was, nor did it appear to me that what I 
said changed your opinion in regard to them. Did it?” 

“I do not now remember the conversation very clearly, 
but I have no recollection that it did.” 

“I thought that in regard to the amelioration of humanity 


318 “ QUACK ! ” 

you had adopted a certain class of ideas without any of that 
careful consideration, that thorough probing of all the ele¬ 
ments of the problem, which you brought to bear in scien¬ 
tific questions. You had, in fact, so steeped yourself in 
exact knowledge that you had not realised the enormous 
qualitative difference between social problems and scien¬ 
tific problems.” 

“State the difference, as you see it.” 

“In scientific problems there are frequently unknown fac¬ 
tors, but it is not infrequently possible to isolate those which 
are known, and to treat the others as negligible. It is even 
necessary to do so, for practical purposes, and very often 
the factors ignored really are virtually negligible. But in 
social problems the greatest factor is always unknown and 
unknowable—the evolutionary trend, or mass-trend of the 
human spirit. We never know, and we never can know, the 
event which is preparing for tomorrow—preparing itself, in 
the sense that it will happen whatever we do.” 

“We have argued this before. It seemed to me then, and it 
seems to me now, that your point of view logically involves 
the negation of any effort to help ourselves. I know you 
don’t think so.” 

“Certainly not. What I think is that it behoves us to 
‘walk prattly,’ as my nurse used to say to me when we went 
out by the field-paths in wet weather: she meant that I must 
be careful not to step into a puddle and splash my frock. 
We ought to walk prattly in regard to social problems 
because we cannot be sure that we shall not blunder into a 
morass. Attempts at compulsion are frequently ineffective 
and sometimes produce a contrary result.” 

“There are always the obstinate, perverse, and vicious. 
How can one deal with them, except by compulsion?” 


THE HARDEST NUT OF ALL 


319 


“Let it be a last resort. Begin by smoothing all the paths 
which seem to lead in the right direction: then the question 
of blocking up the others might be considered. It would 
frequently be found that there was no point in blocking them 
up: most people will take the easier road of their own 
accord if you give them time to find out that it really is the 
easier. I distrust the reformer who looks to the policeman 
to help him.” 

“Yet, in spite of all this, when you knew about the experi¬ 
ment you lent yourself to my plans. I can’t fit it in with 
my idea of you, Rina. You are so straightforward.” 

“I saw that I had misjudged you to a certain extent; you 
were not so rash as I had supposed. You were trying to 
test the fundamental assumption of eugenics. I recognised, 
too, that your mind worked in a very high plane. As Roger 
says in his last book: ‘Man’s highest instinct is to build— 
cities, kingdoms, empires, bridges to the stars.’ You were 
trying to build a bridge to the stars, dear. I did not think 
your bridge would span the gulf; I did not think the design 
was right. But you wanted to test the principle underlying 
it, and I wanted to help you as far as I could.” 

“In what particular respect did the bridge design seem to 
you unsound?” 

“Just in connection with the unknown tomorrow. You 
said once that the destinies of the human race are in its own 
hands. To me, they are not, and never can be. ‘The event 
is not with us.’ I thought of it often during the war. How 
completely the agony swept out of our minds all the ideas 
we had been occupied with! More than ever it seemed to 
me that cocksureness in regard to betterment is a form of 
deluded self-importance—an arrogation of powers beyond 
our scope.” 


320 


“ QUACK ! ” 


Harding mused. “You said something of this kind to 
me in the course of one of our discussions—I forget which. 
You told me that I was setting myself up in the place of 
God.” 

“That was a picturesque way of putting it. It amounts 
to that, theologically: the eugenic theory is an attempt to 
substitute the will of man for the will of God—because, in 
laying down the means it is tacitly assumed that the end is 
known. But the end is not known.” 

“The desire for well-being is universal, and, when wisely 
directed by our reasoning powers, leads to results which 
justify the assumption that it is founded in a sound 
instinct.” 

“But we may have acquired the instinct, or had it im¬ 
planted in us, because it serves some deeper purpose, just 
as a lad and a girl who fall in love are led to do so by an 
instinct of which they are rarely more than half-aware and 
are usually inclined to repudiate.” 

Harding’s forehead developed lopsided wrinkles. 

“Your own career is an illustration of what I mean. You 
selected a definite field as a boy, and as a young man you 
made up your mind exactly what you would do in it. And 
you know, Harry, tenacity is one of your strongest quali¬ 
ties. Yet, your achievement has been mainly in another field, 
into which you were led by what is called the force of 
circumstances. You rank high as a scientist, admittedly; 
but you rank still higher as a practitioner. If a man so 
able, so decided, so persevering as yourself does not come 
near his chosen goal, what possibility can there be of direct¬ 
ing the inextricably-interwoven activities of the multitude?” 

The lopsided wrinkles deepened.—“Your view seems to 
me to amount to this: human life is a complex of motive and 


THE HARDEST NUT OF ALL 


321 


action so intricate as to be beyond the reach of analysis and 
synthesis—of analysis, because what one can know of the 
facts is but a small fraction; of synthesis, because the muta¬ 
tions and combinations liable to arise out of any given 
number of facts can only be represented by X—an unknown 
quantity. Arithmetically, only a certain number of com¬ 
binations can be made out of a given number of factors: 
but in sociology, the possible permutations are infinite. Is 
that the idea?” 

“Yes. Fundamentally, nearly all schemes for compulsory 
betterment rest upon the assumption that it is possible to 
classify men and women; whereas, it is no more possible 
to say that one belongs to one category, and another to 
another than it is with shades of colour.” 

“But surely it is possible to classify colours. Basing on 
the spectrum-” 

“What colour is my dress?” asked Katrine. 

Harding looked—and looked again. “I see what you 
mean,” he admitted. “But about the classifying of men 
and women—go on.” 

“In a sense, we are all of intermediate shades, like my 
dress. It is impossible to classify most of us as either green 
or blue. Do you remember the Minority Report of the Poor 
Law Commission? Those needing relief were to be classi¬ 
fied into able-bodied, partially unfit, totally unfit, work- 
shy, won’t-works, and so on. I remember asking myself the 
question: ‘What about the marginal cases?’ The idea 
seemed to be, that if a man or woman was near the margin 
he or she would be given the benefit of the doubt. But that 
is not really a solution of the difficulty, because, the prin¬ 
ciple of classification is that a line must be drawn, A being 
put on this side, B on that. In practice it cannot be done 


.322 


“QUACK!” 


—that is to say, it can be done arbitrarily, but then, an 
arbitrary classification is not really a classification at all. 
It is simply a disguised form of the tyrant’s frown or 
smile. Insanity provides another illustration. The law 
clings to the eighteenth-century principle that a person 
must be either sane or mad. Where is the alienist of repute 
who upholds that?” 

“Therefore, when we decided that one was worthy and 
another not-” 

He paused. Katrine said nothing. 

“We were beating the air—in your opinion,” finished 
Harding. 

“It used to seem to me that the more we knew the harder 
it was.” 

“Then, suppose we had had a case in which between us 
we knew everything—mine, for instance?” 

Katrine laughed, thinking that he had pinked her neatly. 
“There could have been no doubt.” 

“I don’t agree.”—He spoke in the placid manner. 

“You would say so, of course.” 

“Yes, I should. Indeed, I am not sure that my opinion, 
if we had to decide my case now, would not be against 
taking action.” 

She looked at him. “You are not serious, Harry?” 

“Perfectly serious. But I have not had the advantage of 
hearing my colleague’s view.” 

“You may hear it if you wish, Sir Harding.” 

“I should like to. Er—perhaps it would be best to make 
an exception in this instance, and my colleague were to 
direct the discussion instead of myself.” 

Katrine began: “The patient devoted himself to scientific 
studies in boyhood, and-” 


THE HARDEST NUT OF ALL 


323 


“Stay, stay! You should give the medical first.” 

“But we know that.” 

“State it—briefly.” 

She stated it—very well, considering how rusty her medi¬ 
cal knowledge was. 

“Excellent. Concise, but clear—and, I think, adequate. 
Sum up.” 

“I have.—The patient, as I said before, devoted himself 
to scientific studies-” 

“No, no, Rina. Draw the conclusion—the conclusion 
which was necessary as a basis for our views. It need not 
govern the verdict, but it must be stated.” 

“Convalescence will be a long and wearisome busi¬ 
ness-” 

“M.B.!” 

She knew what the interruption meant. She tried to 
frame her evasion more intelligently. 

“Inexact. What is the matter with you? I will say it, 
‘It is not possible in this case to restore a healthy life to 
the community. The patient will not in any event be able 
to resume his former avocations.’ ” 

So he had known that too. It was the only point he had 
omitted before. Katrine fell on her knees beside the sofa, 
and buried her face in the rug. She wept. 

“There, there!” Harding put out his hand and laid it 
on her shoulder. “Does it matter so much? Only one 
thing troubles me-” 

He paused. Katrine looked up. A horrible doubt seized 
her. Was this pause one of those dreadful signs—a brief 
partial abstraction of consciousness heralding a long and 
complete blank? She felt relief when he went on in a voice 
which showed that he had merely paused for reflection: 




324 


“ QUACK ! ” 


“I will leave that now. Let us continue. The next ques¬ 
tion to be dealt with is, does the patient, on his record, 
deserve patching up? Pull yourself together, M.B. We 
never funked it for others—why should we for ourselves?” 

Katrine pulled herself together as much as she could with 
the tears rolling down her face. 

“I am content to rest my view on the record,” she managed 
to say—“for it is a fine one. The patient devoted himself to 
scientific studies in boyhood, and carried them on unremit¬ 
tingly until he was thirty-six. Before the age of thirty he 
made a brilliant scientific discovery which foolish people 
first over-estimated and then ran down. Its proper value 
was not recognised for several years, and in the meantime 
he was the subject of undeserved obloquy. Six or seven 
years later he made a second discovery.”—There was just 
a shade of hesitation in her utterance.—“He decided to keep 
it to himself for a time, because he was not sure as to the 
proper application in practice of the treatment to be based 
upon it, and in the former case the temporary failure of his 
achievement was largely due to its having been made public 
prematurely—not through his fault.” 

“Not quite accurate. I will correct you later.” 

“The patient entered upon practice partly with the object 
of testing the new treatment, and of carrying out an impor¬ 
tant experimental trial based upon it. During a period of 
ten years, he improved upon—perfected it, and in the 
course of the following year revealed it to the world. It 
has, since, amply demonstrated its immense present value 
and future potentialities for good.” 

“I concur—in the main.” 

“At the outbreak of war the patient placed his services 
at the disposal of the authorities, who made full use of 


THE HARDEST NUT OF ALL 


325 


them. In 1916 he went to France, in order to study the 
pre-condition which produced certain psycho-neuroses after 
shell-shock. In the course of this investigation he spent 
a considerable time in front-line trenches under shell¬ 
fire-” 

“Tchk, tchk,” said Harding. “There was nothing in 
that. Millions of men risked their lives. Every cockney 
who remained in London during the air-raids did. You 
did.” 

“That may be, dear. But we waited for danger to come 
to us: you went into it deliberately—because you thought 
it necessary.” 

“Pass it over.” 

“He afterwards went out to the Near East with a Medical 
Commission, and did splendid service in regard to the treat¬ 
ment of functional derangements following on bacterial 
infections. For these services he received-” 

“Leave out the ribbons, Rina.” 

“All right. I think that sums up his public activities. 
In his profession he has always been regarded as a straight¬ 
forward and competent practitioner, careful not to commit 
himself unless and until he felt sure of his ground. He 
never refused the benefit of his skill and experience to any 
person, however poor. There are many who remember him 
in their prayers, and many more who ought to if they 
don’t.” 

Harding smiled his stiff, crooked smile.—“Is that my 
colleague speaking?” 

“Yes—so far. Now your wife will bear testimony. The 
patient has been a loving, generous, and faithful hus¬ 
band-” 

“Faithful? I think there is an exception to that.” 


326 


“ QUACK ! ” 


“Oh—her. I forgave her long ago—about two months 
after she was outed, I think. Yes, it was.” 

“Indeed. You never said so.” 

“Not likely,” laughed Katrine. 

“May I ask why you forgave her so soon?” 

“Well—it was sixteen years ago, wasn’t it? And Jack’s 
fifteen.” 

It is to be hoped it was Katrine’s last lucindying. Pre¬ 
sumably, she had gone back in her mind to days when Julia 
Mary was not, and her tongue was unfettered. 

“Continue.” 

“A forbearing husband, and a most admirable father. 
He deserves what he now receives—the ungrudging tribute 
of one who has lived very near to him and knows him 
through and through—knows him to be as good as he is 
able.” 

“But”—the grave voice came—“an unprofitable servant.” 

“My dear!” 

“Yes. Let us face it, Rina. I have been—I was for 
years—the unprofitable servant who hid his talent in a 
napkin.” 

“But that was because you were not sure-” 

“Only partly so. That was the inaccuracy in your state¬ 
ment which I said I would correct. I made a convenience 
of not being sure. I did not really think, when I decided 
to keep it to myself for ten years, that it would take as long 
as that to provide the necessary safeguards. I had been 
called a quack by members of my own profession, had 
resented it, and the accusation had been abundantly dis¬ 
proved. I embarked on a course which led to its being 
justified. For the last four or five years of the experimental 
period, I was a quack.” 



THE HARDEST NUT OF ALL 


327 


“Darling! How can you be so absurd? You never were, 
never could be, a quack. A quack is a person who repre¬ 
sents his remedies to be what in fact they are not: either, 
that they have a remedial value, when they have none, or 
that they have a remedial value which is unique, whereas 
in fact it is common to other remedies.” 

Harding smiled. “There are many kinds of quacks, Rina. 
If you look in the dictionary, you will find that one of 
the definitions of a quack is ‘an irregular practitioner.’ I 
was guilty of irregularity in that I went on making use of a 
remedy which I had discovered without revealing it to my 
fellow-practitioners when I could have done so.” 

“But you did not do that for your own advantage.” 

“I did it for my own purposes: that I did not profit by 
it is beside the point.” 

“I don’t agree. It makes all the difference.” 

“You are judging by a lower standard than the highest. 
That won’t do. I may have been—I have been—an un¬ 
profitable servant, but I am entitled to be judged according 
to the highest standard of my profession. I failed when my 
weak point was tested; and, ironically enough, the test 
applied to the principle which governs the practice of 
medicine. I learned it, long before I qualified, from my 
father. ‘In the relation of doctor and patient, it is implied 
that the doctor’s duty is to restore the patient to health 
as far as he can.’ That was how the old man put it. I 
actually recalled the words in the moment of making up my 
mind to the course I was about to pursue. I buried my 
talent. You thought so, Rina. I know you did. Admit it.” 

“How did you know, Harry?” 

“I only suspected, until a year ago. Then, one night 
when you were reading that book of Nordmann’s on the 


328 


“ QUACK ! ” 


Einstein theory, you became very thoughtful in the middle 
of a chapter, and closed the book. As you had left your 
marker in, I looked to see what had made you so thoughtful. 
It was the passage about the lamp of science. Those of us 
who add to the sum of knowledge carry the lamp, each 
for his moment. I lowered the lamp, Rina—hooded it, so 
that no one but myself should see what it illuminated. 
Sum up, and take that into account, fairly.” 

Katrine did as she was bidden. He was inexorable—like 
the Power of whose existence he did not allow. 

They considered their verdicts. 

They found it impossible to decide. 


THE END 


AUTHOR’S NOTE 


The scientific discoveries ascribed to the hero of this book 
are fictitious. No attempt has been made to deal with the 
indirect moral aspect of the use made of the second of them. 






























































































































































































































